


Until We're Done

by okbutjusthisonce



Series: Until We're Done [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Angst, Birth, Bondage, Captivity, Established Relationship, Forced Pregnancy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega John, Omega Verse, Original Character(s), Rape, Size Kink, Surgery, birth scene, clotted cream, dark!Sherlock, erotic birth, labor, more non con, more rapey moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:32:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 35,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okbutjusthisonce/pseuds/okbutjusthisonce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is held captive by Sherlock and is forced to bear his children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There was a prompt I read sometime ago, but I can't find it now... I'll link later if I ever do... may or may not be omegaverse, won't know til I write more... unbeta'ed, feedback welcome

“Haaaaaaaaangh!” the sound comes out of him instinctively; he hears it as if someone else is providing the soundtrack to his pain. He can not help screaming, he can not.

“Good, John, good.” says someone soothingly, a woman’s voice, one of the nurses attending to him. He’s not seen her before, not that he would necessarily remember. He feels her wiping his head with a cool cloth. 

“You’re doing so well.” She says tenderly, and for a moment he thinks he is going to weep. These days, this is the only time kindness is shown to him. Another contraction ripples through his body, and beyond the pain John hears himself crying out again. The desire to push is overwhelming, but he doesn't. He knows; he’s done this before. 

“Almost ready, almost there honey.” Says the Nice Nurse after seeing her colleague nod his head. He is standing between John’s legs which are elevated and stirppued. John is thankful for this; giving birth has never been so difficult before. His body seems to be completely out of his control, he can’t catch his breath, he can’t do anything but convulse with each contraction. The male nurse is swabbing him, preparing to slice his perineum open. John knows that part of his body must be bulging outward; the searing burning pain between his legs feels too much to bear.

The Nice Nurse takes his hand.   
“Okay, honey, get ready we’re going to make an incision and then you’ll be able to push.” she says. John believes he must be crushing her hand, but she doesn’t seem to blink. He has a vague impression of her face through the pain. It is a face perhaps his own age, half hidden in a mask, eyes laced with compassion. He barely registers the cut - it’s just another bright note lost in a choir of pain - but he does feel the sudden release of pressure, a warm gush of fluid escaping him, and an all new urgency as the baby’s head starts to crown. 

“It’s really big.” Says a second woman attending. She somehow sounds surprised and a little bored at the same time. “This is going to take a while. Should we administer anesthesia?” 

“Not allowed.” Says the male. John wishes he could see their faces, without the surgical masks and caps that curtail their humanity so effectively. He wishes he could do more than scream but he can barely breathe it seems. Sweat trickles into his eyes, blurs his vision as he gasps, right on the edge of panic. 

“You’re going to hyperventilate, love,” says Nice Nurse, as if reading his mind.   
“We need to steady things now, honey or it’ll be worse for you. I’ll breathe as you ought to, and you follow my lead, okay?” John nods as best he can, follows her lead as best he can, wrangles his breathing pattern back into something like helpful as best he can. 

“Good job John!” says Nice Nurse a little too cheerfully. “Now get ready, we’re going to start pushing.” 

It seems like forever before the child’s head is out. There are several false starts, John can feel himself start to open, only to have the child slide back, cruelly, painfully. At last he feels the familiar sensation of the head stretching him impossibly wide; past the point of no return. There is a harsh kind of pop and then it hangs heavy between his splayed legs, giving a moment of reprieve for both of them. John is exhausted, and he knows there’s more to come. He can’t do it, he is sure of this and is about to vocalize the sentiment, when the door opens. And suddenly Sherlock is there, a set of pale cruel eyes behind a mask. These days it is a rare and terrifying moment for him to be in the delivery room, and for a second fear knocks a deep stillness into John. Then reality sets back in and he is struggling around pushing the shoulders of the child out of his body. Behind the white mask Sherlock watches him emotionlessly, watches as John bears his child - again. When at last John feels the baby spill from between his legs, Sherlock turns on heel and leaves the room.

The three staff members snap into action, Nice Nurse is coaching him to get the afterbirth out, the male nurse has snipped the umbilical cord; handed the baby off to the other woman to clear its nostrils, check it over. He is already prepping John to be stitched up. Nice Nurse is commending him, John is not quite aware of the placenta sliding out of him; they’ve added something to his IV and he can feel himself slipping away far too quickly. He is out of time. He looks up at Nice Nurse pleadingly, she’s been so kind to him these long hours. Tears spring to his eyes. 

“Please,” he rasps desperately, “Please let me hold it... just for a minute...please, please... please”. 

Things have changed though, and her eyes are devoid of the empathy he thought he saw earlier - maybe he was mistaken. Her gaze flickers over him; clinical, detached, far too familiar. None of them will speak to him now, will acknowledge him, he thinks. John suddenly struggles to sit up, he wants to see the baby he’s just suffered for, wants to have some kind of memory besides this horrible moment to hold on to. 

“Increase Ketamine by 10mg.” (Not So) Nice Nurse says, and his struggle is met with soft swift blackness, and series of sad, strange dreams.

His eyes peel open. He is groggy and exhausted, body aching. The child was large.  
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for his consciousness. When he sees John is awake, he taps the bag on the IV stand matter-of-factly.

“I’ve asked that the fertility drugs you were on be changed. You seem to have become resistant to them. I expect more from you John, quite literally.”   
John says nothing, though his heart clenches and he wants to scream.  
“You asked for something today.” Sherlock says disapprovingly.  
John looks at the blurry figure in front of him, marvels at the transition from trusted friend to lover to tormentor and captor this man has undergone. His tongue feels too large in his mouth.  
“How...long... can... this go on?” John rasps weakly. He’s lost count of the time he’s been here, the number of children he’s been forced to bear, suffer for, yet never see.  
Sherlock looks at him steadily.   
“Until we’re done,” he says sliding a cool hand along John’s inner thigh,  
“Until we’re done.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is forced into heat and impregnated again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor John. This story just got a bit darker for him.  
> I might just have to write something happier for him soon.  
> Feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Next chapter... the results of the new fertility drugs...  
> (pooooor John)

The day is warm for early May, but no one is complaining; having the sun out and shining is perfect for this afternoon. It inspires a deep happiness in John, one that completely saturates him as he looks across the garden. The table is set beautifully, streamers and balloons accenting the violets and bluebells that line the edges of the lawn. There is a pony with a chain of marigolds and a pinata. A little girl with a pair of gauze wings and a toy wand is spinning around, happily demanding he pay her attention. She has her work cut out for her; the party is in full swing, and there are children running about everywhere, playing and laughing in golden afternoon light. A boy is tugging at his hand, then clamoring onto him, in direct competition with his sister. 

“Look daddy! Look at me!” She says spinning like a fairy.  
“Daddy!” Insists the boy. Sensation of tiny arms around his neck. John feels his heart smile as more children gather to love and be loved.  
“Daddy!” they cry happily over each other, and John is forced to lazily manage their affection. The cake comes out, candles lit. High pitched voices scream in excitement and there is a rush to the table. Small hands in each of his own pull him towards the celebration, where the singing has already begun. John opens his mouth to join in, but he has forgotten the words.

His eyes snap open. White. Bright. The starkness of the room confuses him, and too late he tries to cling to the dream and all its fading sensations. His limbs are bound in a lunatic mess of cables and pulleys; the expression of a deranged mind. The madness keeps his arms and legs suspended, just slightly, something he’s sadly become accustomed to. There is a beeping sound coming from a machine that’s somewhere he can’t see, but he is sure it’s tracking his vitals and anything else Sherlock may want to know about. As if on cue the door opens.

“You’re awake. Very good,” Sherlock’s eyes are glassy. The room fills quickly with the overbearing scent of alpha. John knows this he will never get used to. He came to the conclusion long ago that Sherlock must be upping his dosage, like any addict with any drug. John is sure his tolerance to Sherlock’s amped up pheromones has also developed over time. He wonders if he could even smell a real alpha at this point. John’s rational mind starts to wander as biochemistry kicks in.

“You know what time it is,” says Sherlock. He slides the bed sheets down and John’s hospital gown up slowly. He adjusts one of the cables and John’s ankles rise towards the ceiling.  
“don’t you John.”

John says nothing, his throat still sore from last month’s punishment. In any case, he doesn’t know what is left to say. Long fingers slide between his legs; probing, massaging determinedly. John holds himself very still even as feels his body begin to betray and respond, becoming moist and warm under Sherlock’s touch.

“You’re right on the edge.” Sherlock says, pleased. “Let’s give it a little incentive.” He crawls onto the bed with these words, straddles John’s body with his own. John closes his eyes.  
“Look at me.” Demands Sherlock calmly. The tone is not to be denied. John looks first at Sherlock’s face, which is developing a fine sheen of sweat as he begins to breathe more and more heavily. His eyes begin take on an animal cast. John lets his gaze drift downward to where Sherlock’s hand is working his enormous cock; jerking himself off matter of factly over John’s exposed flesh. John thinks it looks bigger than last time, but he doesn't dwell much on the thought. Sherlock’s left hand runs alternately over his own body and John's, from neck to navel mingling their scents, rubbing his drug and hormone saturated sweat into John's flesh. The effect is immediate; John feels his body kick into the start of a full heat. Broken desire washes over him. There is a minor flood happening between his legs. He becomes hard despite his misery and anger; his despair. He gasps as Sherlock slides down a bit, grabs both their cocks and thrusts against John roughly a few times before ejaculating messily on John's stomach with a low groan.

"Mine." Sherlock growls aggressively. He presses his hand hard against John's belly. He stares into John, wild eyed, as he smears his semen between John's legs, across John's face and over his lips. John begins to turns his head away to the side, but is stopped by Sherlock's hand. It wraps around the lower half of his face and pushes John's head back into the bed with quick anger.

"Mine. " Sherlock insists. He holds John's head deep into the mattress. John doesn't resist though he can’t quite breathe; he's terrified of how rapidly Sherlock can go from being a sadistic genius to a brutal animal; he’s felt the consequences of challenging the latter more than once. Besides, his body is still vibrating with need and subservience; there has been too much chemical coercion and the biology of the situation has taken over. For a second he wonders if he will be suffocated and die this way, but just as abruptly the oppressing hand is removed.

Sherlock spreads John’s legs roughly, almost too wide for John’s comfort. His eyes gleam delirium, and he is making a low primal noise that John sometimes has bad dreams about. 

Sherlock pushes himself into John, working himself impossibly deep inside until John hears himself whimper. The sound is everything Sherlock is waiting for and he begins to thrust into John, falling into a rhythm quickly. John’s body rocks with the motion, he is lost in the moment; being raped is another thing he’s grown accustomed to. John’s hands grip around the cables that suspend him, knuckles turning white as Sherlock comes hard inside him and his knot forms. There is suddenly extra pressure against John’s prostate and John begins moaning, his body clamping down as best it can around Sherlock’s girth as they convulse together and Sherlock fills John with his offspring. Again.

John wakes up in his usual state of disorientation. He’s not sure if its sedatives or depression or captivity that have made him so consistently foggy headed, but he can’t manage to think about it too much either. He’s still on his back. His bindings are off but he’s been repositioned; his legs fold into his chest, his hips are elevated, tilting him back slightly. His body is bruised, it tells a tale he’d rather not hear. His lower lip is swollen and tastes of blood. His shoulder burns. John knows there is a fresh bite, left in the same place as the others. The scar forming there is deeper than the bullet wound in some ways; for it’s never left to heal fully. He stretches out painfully, wondering vaguely how long this heat lasted. The blackout for it seems to have been especially bad. 

John sits up slowly. He is terribly thirsty and hungry. There is water by the bed and he drinks it as slowly as he can make himself. There will be food soon, he knows, but more than anything he wants to wash.

John slowly lathers his aching body under the stream of hot water. He touches his belly gently. He swears he can already feel new life inside of him growing, if he thinks about it. He doesn’t think about it. Instead he dreams of a birthday party in the garden as the shower runs cold.


	3. CLOTTED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Doppelgängers and Clotted Cream.  
> And fertility drugs of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I thought this story was anything other than omega verse.
> 
> Stay tuned...
> 
> feedback welcome

"How many times have we had this conversation."

"Technically, no times, although the subject of your moving back to Baker Street has been a popular one as of late."

John sighed, rubbed his hands over his face in frustration. He looked across the park. The day had started off so nicely, too.

"Sherlock," John said trying to keep his tone even. There was a long pause.

"Are you listening?" John asked, annoyance starting to creep in anyway. Sherlock gave John his best pain-in-the-ass grin. John found himself marvelling at how much that too-wide mouth with its smarmy expression had charmed him so utterly at one point. How he used to thrive on such moments. Past tense, he thought crossly. He let out a sigh.

"Of course, John. I'm always listening." responded Sherlock.

"No, no, see I don't think you are."

"I've thought very carefully through everything you've told me thus far about your feelings, and your assertion that things can't be the same is correct, John."

"What?" John sat back a bit in surprise. Perhaps things had started to sink in at last. John felt he’d been talking for hours. Saying the same things over and over again. Not for the first time. It was exhausting.

"Of course not, it was a bit of nostalgic longing for us to ever be thinking that it could-"

"Hang on, us?"

"Some life events after all, have genuine impact, inspire change-"

"I didn't ever say-"

"Or so they say. Your becoming a proper doctor again - making you feel valuable and independent - Lestrade being transferred, - ending your consulting time with the police - likely forcing you to become even more independent -my being dead - "

"You weren't dead, though, were you, you git." John suddenly stood, angry. It pissed him off that he was still pissed off, but he couldn't help it. That time had been so dark for him, and Sherlock still seemed oblivious to the swath of destruction he'd cut into John's life with his little game. Oblivious at best, superficially apologetic at second best, and John didn't want to even think about what seemed to be a likely truth; that Sherlock had in some capacity gotten off on the whole debacle. It never failed to make him see red. John turned to leave.

"Stop." Commanded Sherlock in a matter-of-fact tone. It had become another button of John’s that Sherlock pushed frequently, this bossy demeanor, particularly since John couldn't quite figure out how to ignore it.

“I don’t actually have to, you know,” Said John, spinning on his heel. “Do what you say, Sherlock. I don’t.” _You took me for granted so much!_ He wanted to scream. Instead, John inhaled slowly, tried to hold his ground and hold his shit together, even as he looked down at Sherlock.

“John.”

“What.”

“How long do you think you’ll be angry? I’d like to be able to plan...” John looked at Sherlock, gobsmacked.

“You... you just don’t hear me do you?” he said finally. “You can’t hear me because it’s not what you want to hear...”

“I have some experiments running at the moment that I admit you’d probably be just as happy to avoid...but I will require assistance in my next move against Moriarty.” Sherlock said with a mischievous look. John closed his eyes. Opened them again. Sherlock was still on the park bench, looking relaxed. John walked back over, stood in front of Sherlock solemnly.

“I’m not angry, Sherlock.” he said. Sherlock smiled like a kid, and John almost winced.

“Finally.” Sherlock breathed happily.

John exhaled impatiently. One more try.

“I’m different. _I’m_ what’s changed,” said John, “And yeah, you’re right. A lot of new things have happened since you... went off... but... that’s just it...it’s really just you. You did it, Sherlock. You changed me. You changed the way I see you. I don’t want to help you with experiments, I don’t want to help you play games like we’re bloody overgrown children, and I sure as hell don’t want to live at Baker Street with you!” John took a deep breath.

“I don’t... _I don’t like you anymore. I don’t want to be around you anymore_.” John heard himself saying and was surprised by his own brutal delivery; more than the words themselves there was genuine weight in the sentiment. For a split second he was lightheaded, felt as though he might pass out.

Sherlock’s smile dissolved. John quickly turned away again.

“John.” To John’s surprise, Sherlock caught his hand.

“Don’t go,” said Sherlock.

“Please leave me alone.” muttered John, shaking loose from Sherlock’s grip. He walked away, unable to turn back. He did not want to see what he'd left behind.

….............................

  
John cursed as he wandered the aisles of M&S, a palpable air of distress radiating off him. He wanted a cigarette badly. Looking through the rows of food, nothing seemed to make sense. Eventually he picked up a random green mix, some flowers, and at the last panicked second, a container of clotted cream. An hour later he stood outside the door of the Kensington flat with the items like a hopeful door-to-door salesman.

"You took your sweet time, sweet thing." Came the playful greeting.

He stood just inside the foyer gracefully, arms crossed, lithe frame blocking John's way. A lock of dark hair fell across his brow, adding a boyish vibe to the smile he gave John. He was impeccably groomed as usual; wearing something new that was dark and soft and perfectly fitted. His pale eyes glowed affectionately at John from behind designer frames. John looked at the full mouth and razor-sharp cheekbones and was momentarily dazzled, before the day’s funk descended on him again.

"Walked from Earl's Court. Been looking all over London for your organic rocket," John said, pushing past to go inside. He handed the flowers to Christian, who stooped to give him a quick kiss and a slightly concerned look.

"They’re lovely, John. Well, I suppose this means you didn't find it."

"Sorry, I tried, I really did."

“Are you ok?”

“Yup.”

"What's the clotted cream for?"

"I... thought we could put it on things?"

"Hmmm...looks a bit melty."

“Heh. I guess I walked the long way.”

“Never mind,” Christian pulled the green mix out from the bag, eyed it suspiciously.

“Really, how do they manage such sad vegetables in England, this looks like something raked up from the street...”

"I'm sorry! I tried, alright? I bloody well tried, and there was no bloody rocket!" John shouted at full volume. The clotted cream had somehow found its way against the wall. There was an awkward pause.

"You saw him today, didn't you?" Said Christian. His knowing gaze pierced John through.

John opened his mouth. Closed it. Felt his face flush, his expression fall.

"Oh honey." Said Christian, pulling John close. He held John tightly; insistently, and John slowly felt himself wilt against Christian, anger dissolving in comfort and cashmere.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Whispered John, turning his eyes towards the ceiling. “I’m a complete bastard.”

“You’re human,” soothed Christian, You’re hurting.”

John buried his face in the broad shoulder and moaned in frustration.

"You need to stop doing this to yourself, John." Christian offered in his low, elegant voice.

"And to you."

"...and to me," agreed Christian. He lifted John's face gently. Kissed John's face, slowly, lovingly. Forehead, cheeks, chin. Finally he brought his lips to John's own.

"Smoking and everything. My poor love," Said Christian softly, "Forget dinner. Let's make you feel better. I have an idea of what to do with the clotted cream."

“What’s left of it.” mumbled John sheepishly. He reached up and slid Christian's glasses off. Without them, Christian's pretty eyes under their dark brows intensified. Christian looked back at John with an almost predatory air; a slow smile spread across his hungry mouth. The transition was one John never tired of; seeing his boyfriend shift from an ultra civilized being to something far more primal.

John nuzzled up against the underside of Christian's jaw, inhaling the combination of alpha scent and expensive aftershave he'd come to love.

"Already feeling better." He said as he gave himself over to desire.

  
….............................

  
There is a rabbit on the tea tray. John breaks from his reverie and looks at it through half lidded eyes. The outside air makes them water slightly. He has been vaguely aware of Sherlock’s presence; his rubbing the underside of his jaw against John’s face and body. Musky alpha scent settles on John as Sherlock caresses and rolls against him, nuzzles against John’s bulging stomach, buries his face between John’s legs. John feels Sherlock’s hot breath, is caught between anxiety and pleasure as he is marked; he can smell his own omega scent bubbling underneath it all. His heart pounds in his ears.

Sherlock raises his face and looks up at John with pale, piercing eyes. There is blood on Sherlock’s mouth, and fear spikes through John until he realizes it belongs to neither of them. Sherlock lunges up, forces his mouth up against John’s, nipping John’s lower lip as he pulls back again.

And then Sherlock is stalking away from him, down towards the woods. John shudders at the body language of the figure in black as it grows smaller, slips fluidly into the trees.

The muted land drops away from where he sits, it seems to roll away forever. He looks over at the little table next to him. Silver tray, pot of tea, scones and clotted cream. Bright drops of blood or jam on the scones. Freshly skinned hare, broken and bloody. Wet. Missing an eye. He shudders again, this time from the chill in the early autumn air as much as the macabre reminder of his current state. He pulls the blankets around himself, around his swollen form. He carefully runs his hands along the impossible curve of his belly. He’s unsure as to how long its been, but he knows its not right. Too big, too soon, he thinks.

He is frightened.

 


	4. JUST LIKE THIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll keep you, I’ll keep you just like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's another week, another chapter... 
> 
> Question for readers at the end.

“God you’re gorgeous.” Sherlock Says as he runs his hands over John’s pregnant belly. He traces the line of pale hair from under where John’s navel once was, down to the base of John’s cock. John moans, his body feels good, light and aroused despite his gravid state.

“Please,” John says to Sherlock, “Don’t stop, I need you, I want you.”

“I love you like this, I want you like this all the time.” Says Sherlock. He slips his mouth around the tip of John’s erection. John is lost in sensation, as Sherlock sucks him off gently, slowly, occasionally bringing his face up to kiss John’s enormous belly with a low groan of pleasure.

“You’re so big, John," whispers Sherlock, "But I want you bigger. Huge; I want to fuck you, make you bigger,” His lips suckle John’s flesh.

“I want to make you grow, I want to make you swell with babies. I want to put even more inside you.” he says, and John moans.

Sherlock turns John over onto hands and knees. One hand moves slowly up and down John’s cock, the other roams over John’s heavy form. John arches his back, trembling, tail bone pushing upwards and back. He spreads his legs, opening and offering himself to Sherlock. He is wet with anticipation.

"Do it," John says "Fuck me, make me bigger. Breed me. Make me, give me more."

Sherlock slides into John smoothly, filling John up; John holds Sherlock snugly. There is perfect pressure between them. They breathe hard together, begin to move together, pleasure building with each thrust of Sherlock’s, with every squeeze from John. Sherlock’s hormones blaze through John’s system. John’s body responds, becoming pliant and something more.

John feels the head of Sherlock’s cock rubbing against his cervix, making it soft, swollen, loose. Building tension and pleasure deep inside John.

“It’s... happening,” says John in between bouts of quick panting. “I can...ah...feel it. You’re - I'm - ah- ah- ah-” his words are halted as he inhales sharply and arches his back in a wave of sensation. His body trembles and his belly suddenly swells.

"Ahh-ah-ah-ah-"

Sherlock thrusts into John again, and John shudders and grows again as he pushes back into Sherlock.

"Ahh- m...more-"

John moans loudly with the feeling of being fucked and made to swell, he hears Sherlock’s own low sounds as he continues to move, pushing in and out of John, shuddering each time John does. They ride each growth spurt as a wave of bliss that begins with Sherlock and ends with John. They rock together, gaining rhythm, John becoming larger and larger as they go.

John’s belly begins to meet the ground below it. He feels an intense pressure building from within. The next tremor adds more stress to his body as it stretches down, pushes into the floor.

John feels as though he might burst.

Sherlock climaxes, washing John’s insides with a sudden flood of semen.

John feels Sherlock's knot inside him pulsing, growing, stretching him. John drops his head to the floor with another deep moan. His body is contracting, Sherlock's seed has triggered something; everything.

John's water has broken, The force of it is too much behind his soft, overstimulated cervix; in one great contraction it dilates, softens open, releasing fully. John cries out in surprise and pleasure at this internal eruption; moans with gratification as the first of the many children he is carrying begins to drop quickly into his birth canal.

“It’s...ohgod... it’s time.” he gasps, pushing his hips back into Sherlock. John grips against Sherlock, they are locked together, there is no space for the child to exit. They sway uncertainly for a moment, John squirming more and more as the urge to birth grows stronger. Sherlock’s seed spurts and flows.

“Please, “ gasps John, “Please unnnnghhhhh...Sher-”

Sherlock grabs John’s shoulders with a growl, pulls himself and John both up into kneeling positions. John gasps, pressing against Sherlock hard as his body contracts and rolls. John's eyes are shut tight, he is crying out softly, moving his hips slowly, undulating; working around the baby, working around Sherlock, grinding against the sensations. Sherlock can feel the pressure of his offspring against him. He shifts slightly, attempting a little room for the baby to move down. John howls at a feeling he has no name for.

Sherlock wraps one arm around John's chest, holding him back, supporting John's posture. His other hand slides between John’s legs, searching. He strokes John’s cock, massages John's balls. He presses his palm to the heated wet flesh behind. Sherlock feels the ability to pull away; he is drained for the moment, but just; he is already beginning to grow hard again inside of John.

“Are you ready?” he whispers in John’s ear. John drops his neck back, his head pressed hard into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock,” he breathes raggedly. It is almost a plea.

Sherlock pulls out of John in a single smooth motion.

Fluid pours out of John, his body convulsing with sudden release.

“Huuuuuuhgnnnnn!” John cries, as the child’s body drops down. His huge belly ripples with contraction, hips bucking; body readjusting to the sudden space where Sherlock was.

Sherlock’s hand moves back and forth, rubbing John’s perineum, working John into a frenzy of further pleasure as the flesh between his legs begins to bulge out wildly. He slides his erect cock lazily over John's backside, his breath tickles John's neck.

“Open your legs.” Whispers Sherlock, and John does his best to splay his knees as wide as he can.

"Hauuuuunnnnnnngh!" John's body stretches with an orgamsn as the baby shifts, landing against his prostate before spreading John wide, crowning, emerging. John’s head drops down in response, he cries out, thighs twitching, arms reaching helplessly around his rolling belly. He is trapped in something between struggle and pleasure. The pressure and speed of the baby coming out of him is too much for him to resolve.

John whimpers, his body seems beyond his control.

“Push.” commands Sherlock, and John engages his muscles though it hardly seems necessary. He bears down with a soft grunt. The sound quickly becomes a guttural cry as the baby breaks from between his legs, dropping out of him along with a new gush of warm liquid. John moans.

"Good. Again." Whispers Sherlock, “More.”

He is pushing himself up into John, moving, rocking. John feels a bright burst inside himself and then the next baby is dropping, moving through him. Sherlock pulls out quickly. A powerful contraction racks John's body, and he feels the weight of a third baby chasing the second.

The second one is very large, it stretches John impossibly, becomes lodged between his legs. Its half crowned head causes him to howl in strained pleasure.

“Hannnngh. I - can’t... I can’t- Nhggggggggggggh”

“Push, John. Breathe and push.” Sherlock's own breath is hot and rough in his ear. He rubs John’s lower back, reaches around to stroke John’s enormous over sensitized stomach.

John is forced to push in earnest this time and it takes his breath away. It is difficult, the baby is huge. He twists his body and pushes until there is an enormous head protruding from between his legs.

"Hannnnghhg." John’s head goes back again to Sherlock as he strains with first one shoulder, then another. Sherlock helps John slide his feet out from under him, helps him move into a squatting position. John pushes his feet into the floor. His rolling belly bulges, pushing his thighs apart. Its weight pulls him forward. Sherlock pulls him back. John expels the child with a last, heroic push and inhales with sharp surprise as the third, smaller baby rides the force of his efforts and drops out within seconds of it’s sibling. His own erect cock reaches along his distended stomach, spilling semen across the surface with each orgasmic birth.

“You’re becoming an animal,” Sherlock whispers in John’s ear.

Fast, impatient, jump started, the words are an incantation; his body is now eager to bear. He drops to his hands and knees again and begins pushing babies out. They come quickly. There is a fourth between his thighs within minutes, the fifth one crowing before the pleasure of bearing the fourth has subsided. John labors it past the shoulders and feels it come out from him in a powerful, wet burst.

No longer is Sherlock on top of him, but behind John, running his hands between John’s legs, massaging, caressing, keeping John aroused. He receives their offspring as John arches his spine up and down, slowly writhing, birthing one after another. Each time makes John struggle and cry out in intense pleasure. John quickly loses count, consumed by the repeated act instead.

There is a pause. John drips with sweat. His body trembles. It feels empty and hungry.

“Let me have you like this,” comes Sherlock's low whisper. He turns John over onto his back. They are on a hospital bed together.

“I’ll keep you, I’ll keep you just like this.” John feels Sherlock gently spread his legs apart wider than seems possible. He arches his back, inhales with the trace of a squeak as Sherlock sinks deep into his body and starts to move, to impregnate John again. John feels himself become an ocean tide, as he begins to swell and burst...

…...............................

John wakes from the dream with a long organsmic shudder. He stares at the ceiling above, as the last sensations drain away from him. He ponders the literalness of the dream; it’s parallel elements to his waking existence. Even Sherlock inducing labor through sex - especially that part, he thinks. Sherlock has tried it on multiple occasions. It has been largely unsuccessful, the last attempt particularly disastrous. The incident seemed to be the thing that convinced Sherlock to step away; get  assistance for John’s future deliveries.

 _Bastard_ , John thinks, and then realizes with a start; he is clear headed. Perhaps not perfectly so, but for the first time in ages, he can think. He can experience anger as something more than a faraway echo. His body is relatively relaxed and drug free, he can feel the difference. He is not bound. Cautiously, he moves his fingers to his shoulder. The bite is still there, it still holds a deep pain, but it’s lightly scabbed over. Slowly he slides his arm over his obtrusive belly. A feeling of intense desire grips him, leaving him momentarily flustered. He exhales, trying to calm himself a little and moves his hand to his cock. There is a catheter in him, semen is still leaking out from around it. John realizes he’s been left alone, unmolested, for some half-decent amount of time. How long has it been? A week? A month?

He can’t quite resolve things. His mind is not hazy as it was before, but it is still jumbled; confused. Time is not linear. Dreams and memories threaten to become hopelessly mixed up. John tries to think about how he got here. When he got here. He remembers being outside, wrapped in wool, watching Sherlock disappear into dusky woods. That is closest; it feels like now, but it can’t be right, there is early morning light streaming through the windows. Besides, his body has been healing. John tries again. He is in London, kissing Sherlock roughly in a side alley.

That seems like it happened later; but that is not right either, he knows.

John raises himself up on his elbows slowly. His stomach is monstrously large. His legs have been left elevated. Bed Rest. He thinks. Remembers... perhaps. He is very uncomfortable, not at all like in his dream. It is difficult to move. His breathing feels labored. He would kill for a blowjob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Dear Readers...  
> John's dream sequence was an experiment for me (much like the story itself), replacing instances of pain with pleasure. Of course it's not supposed to be a generally realistic scene but still I'd like to know...Did it work? Or is pain a key element to a birth scene for you?  
> What do you think?


	5. REDLIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll do as you like.” Sherlock said, “whatever you want.”  
> “You can’t.” said John cruelly. “That’s the whole bloody point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it's been all radio silent - ironically since I asked a specific question at the end of last chapter.  
> Is anybody out there, or is it just a bunch of bots hitting this fic? (porn reading bots).  
> Either way, how's the story working for you?

He is cold. John sits with eyes closed, half awake, half dreaming, shivering. He vaguely wonders if he’s been abandoned, become boring.

“I’m sorry”  
“I’m sorry”  
“I’m sorry”

The sound is both inside and out of John’s head. He is not sure who is saying it.

“What.” he replies listlessly.  
“It’s time to go in.” Someone, perhaps Sherlock, is helping John to his feet. The blankets fall away from him, cold air assaulting him. The size and weight of his stomach pulls him down, bends him forward. He is shaking; swollen, unsteady. John leans heavily on his walker as it is placed in front of him. He’s come to rely on it. John allows himself be slowly guided inside. He can't stop feeling cold. 

The moon is out.

He is shouting at Sherlock, outside the restaurant. He’s dragged Sherlock into the side alley. He is so much angrier than before. Sherlock has ruined everything tonight. Publicly.

“How could you come here! How can you behave like this! How can you expect me to-”  
“You’re seeing someone,” said Sherlock. “A man.”  
John blinked in surprise.  
“Yes, ok, I am seeing a man, and maybe this is the one thing I do have you to thank you for -” John raised his head sharply at Sherlock’s expression.  
“Why do you look so happy!?” he demanded.  
“John! To successfully keep something like this from me, such a large aspect of your life, and we - knowing each other so well - not once did I deduce in all the times we’ve met up - do you not see - no of course you don’t - you have that look on your face. John! No one’s managed such a thing before. ”  
“And so - what? You’ve come to destroy my relationship?”  
“What could you possibly get from him that I can’t give you?”  
“Lots of things!” John roared angrily, “Things like sympathy-”  
“-I understand you better than you do.”  
“-respect,”  
“-You’re the only one I respect.”  
“-love-”  
“Do you want me to say it first? I’ve been practicing.” Said Sherlock clasping John’s hands.  
“Wha- what?” John stumbled back, nearly falling over.  
“Do you want me to say ‘I love you’ first? Or would you prefer to take the lead? What would make you happier as we go forward in our relationship?"  
"Our -"  
"You certainly seem to dominate that fellow inside.”

There was a frustrated pause as John tried to figure out which thing he wanted to say first. Sherlock was scrambling his thoughts as usual, winding John up as only Sherlock could.

“I love you, John,” said Sherlock somewhat unnaturally and with a slightly odd, giddy expression. “Now, your turn.”  
“Sherlock!” John pulled his hands away. “Stop it! Will you just...stop.”  
“Come back, John. Come home.”  
“it’s not - we’re not- arrrrghhhh!"  
John wanted to scream. He turned in a half circle of frustration, kicking the ground, hands clasping the back of his head.  
“Sex.” he said finally.  
“What?” Sherlock’s face flashed the micro expression he wore when recalculating. What John would call “surprised” for most people.  
“I keep trying to tell you. I need... an adult relationship now. We can’t have that, can we Sherlock?”  
“Of course we can. Do. Your measurement system is absurd and frankly confusing-”  
“You aren’t a sexual being. You can barely stand being touched. Christian’s a bloody alpha for god’s sake.”  
“Overrated, egotistical, libido driven, unintelligent brutes-”  
“He’s not. Did you notice the human rights award someone handed him tonight? Did you notice him keep his cool when you materialized to bollock everything up? I assure you, Sherlock, he’s fucking brilliant and gentle and has a great cock and knows how to take care of me. We can build some kind of future, even have children together- ”  
“I’ve had sex before. The Woman-”  
“Yeah great, listen, once or twice in the hands of a grateful pro doesn’t quite equal a lifetime of experience.”  
“I can do anything. I can master anything - ”  
John slammed Sherlock against the wall abruptly. He shoved one hand expertly under Sherlock’s clothes. Found smooth, cool flesh he hadn’t known he wanted to touch. John forced his hands down into Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock squirmed in spite of himself. Dropped his head in discomfort. John kissed Sherlock’s neck.  
“You were right, you’re always right,” John said angrily as he squeezed Sherlock’s member, pushed him harder against the wall.  
“I dominate Christian. This is what I do to him. What we do for each other. So this is what you want, right?”  
“No...John..." Said Sherlock a note of desperation creeping into his voice.  
"...not...like this...please...”  
John moved his hand, his fingers exploring Sherlock’s backside. He could feel the tension in Sherlock’s body. A small part of John was crying out, warning he’d regret it all later, but John pushed his face into Sherlock's, kissed him forcefully.  
“Are you ready to suck my cock? Get down on your knees and serve me like a bitch? Or push me down and fuck me like a king? Can you do that? He demanded.  
“I -”  
John pushed a finger inside Sherlock, relishing the way Sherlock jerked back, tore himself away from John in real distress. A familiar sensation of guilty pleasure, of excitement hit John. For a split second, he actually considered it; forcing Sherlock there and then. Turning the tables on who was in charge once and for all. Desert sands flashed before John’s eyes. Then Sherlock was looking at him with an expression John had never seen before. One that made him nauseous; broke his heart and enraged him all at once. Flared nostrils and water rimmed eyes looked back at John’s anger helplessly, sincerely.  
“I’ll do as you like.” Sherlock said, “whatever you want.”  
“You can’t.” said John cruelly. “That’s the whole bloody point.”

“I’m sorry”  
“I’m sorry”  
“I’m sorry”

John wakes screaming. He wants to crawl out of his body, away from the pain, away from physical misery. His body is contracting. He can't breathe. Blackness. 

Red light. Like an old photo development room. His arms tangled again in cables and plastic IV tubes, his legs hoisted up, Sherlock between them, busy, with what, John can’t feel. The pain is gone, in fact he’s feeling euphoric. John looks again at the top of Sherlock’s head over the rise of his own stomach and laughs.  
“hey...what’s... what’s going on down there?” John slurs. His voice sounds like it’s coming from outside. He sounds drunk, it makes him laugh again.  
Sherlock looks up. The surgical mask hides his lips as he speaks; his voice comes from nowhere at all.  
“You’re on the verge of having a miscarriage,” He says. Sherlock is holding something that looks like a cross between a small drill and a large needle.  
John laughs. He thinks Sherlock looks like a mechanic. John is the car. More like a bus, he thinks and starts laughing.  
“Beeeeeeeep.” says John rolling his eyes backwards. He is floating.  
“You also have a fever, and I suspect, are suffering an allergic reaction to the new drugs in your system. My guess would be it’s the anesthesia reacting to the immune system suppressants and the newer hormonal manipulators...”  
“You forgot me. Left me outside.” Slurs John. He is too loopy to be afraid.  
Sherlock looks at him solemnly.  
“S'posed to protect me. Forgot me. You’re a terrible alpha.” says John with another giggle.  
“John, It’s good for you to try and stay focused just now. Awake.”  
“Why... do you even want me?” moans John.

"Right. Who wants a doctor-soldier-hero-special-police-consultant-criminal-catching-boyfriend. A cute English one that brings me flowers." Says Christian. His fingers explore John's face gently. John moves to kiss him. 

"Can you feel this? John?" Sherlock is demanding of him. 

"Where is Christian." Mutters John through half open eyes and searching, puckering lips.  
Sherlock doesn't look up.  
"There is no Christian." He says.  
"You told me you killed him."  
"Did I."  
"I believe 'butchered' was the exact word you used, you cold hearted bastard!" cries John, attempting to point an accusing finger at Sherlock. His arm swings feebly in the pulley system. John sighs, exhausted even within this high. His head drops down. Offhandedly he sees the tube going into his chest. Sherlock rises, he is covered in blood. John shuts his eyes.

“You’re becoming an animal.” John says softly. The words are for both of them. Even with eyes closed, the world is spinning. He doesn’t feel well at all. He hears Sherlock as if from far away.

“The good news is, John,” the deep voice says while John slowly fades, “that after this you’ll have a much easier time bearing children.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, looks like John did some very bad things in Afghanistan...


	6. THE ALPHA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is fucked. Literally and figuratively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's responded so far. I know people have been asking questions that I have not been answering, but I don't want to post what I consider spoilers.
> 
> Discussion is awesome, I love to hear what people are thinking/wondering because it lets me know how the story's coming off. Just might not give you the answer...sorry...
> 
> If you really have a burning desire to ask something you can send me a private message through tumblr. Same username. Thank you for reading, and as this is a WIP, feedback is welcome, craved, lusted over etc. ;)

“Hang on! Coming! Coming!” John cried at the incessant buzzing. John stumbled to the door. Despite being half asleep he managed to pull his robe on and avoid tripping himself as he got to the door and opened it. Early morning light streamed in along with London’s crisp autumn air.

John blinked in confusion at the figure before him. Not the delivery man.

“Sherlock?” He asked, slightly befuddled. “What -”

“Good Morning, John,” said Sherlock pushing his way into the foyer. “this is rather a posh place your distraction has.”

“My wha- Why are you here?!” demanded John. He stepped in front of Sherlock, hoping to barr Sherlock’s way further into the flat. Something about the light registered in John’s sleepy brain.  “Wait, what time is it?” Sherlock flashed a quick grin, looked as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind.

“It’s exactly 6:37.” He answered. As he did so, he pushed his body into John’s, pushed them both further into the foyer. John heard the heavy door that was the way to outside world close with a firm click. He stumbled backwards, off kilter in both body and mind at Sherlock’s unexpected advance. Something like an electric jolt ran through his body, scrambling his brain for a second. John jerked his head as if to shake it off.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded again. He took a step back. There was really no other place to go. Sherlock stepped forwards, pressing himself into John again. The strange current ran through John a second time, going straight to his loins as much as his head this time.

“I’m here to celebrate with you: the completion of an experiment.” Said Sherlock tugging at his scarf. “I wanted you to be the first to appreciate it, so I came at once.” His scarf dropped to the floor. The scent of alpha invaded John’s sinuses and saturated his brain. He continued to stumble backwards, Sherlock advancing in kind. Sherlock pushed his face into John’s neck, inhaling with great relish.

“Oh, John, I can smell you.” moaned Sherlock. His arms embraced John with a crushing intensity as Sherlock drew the both of them even closer together.

“Oh, yes, very good. Very good.” Sherlock said.

John shoved Sherlock back, though it took reserves of strength he didn’t know he had.

“What are you doing? Are you wearing some kind of alpha cologne!?” John exclaimed. Sherlock opened his coat. He was shirtless underneath, perspiring lightly. Alpha scent hit John as hard as a physical punch. He stumbled backwards and fell; discovered he was on the parlour floor. The inner door between the foyer and the flat was somehow far down the hall, closed and locked.

“I am an alpha, John.” said Sherlock, letting his coat slide off. He dropped to his knees, pinning John. John inhaled sharply, his head spinning. He felt drunk, euphoric...horny. Sherlock smelled so good; John felt himself rapidly becoming aroused. His breath was already becoming a series of short pants.

“ahhhh- wow- um- ah- you can’t just-”

Sherlock’s fingers traced John’s nipples through the robe. He looked down at John intensely. “In fact John, I am _the_ alpha. To your omega of course,” he said. Sherlock leaned close to John’s face, let his tongue slide quickly under John’s jawline.

“Sher- unhg - what do you think you’re- uh- oh-"

“Ohhh lovely lovely.” Sherlock said. He peeled John’s robe back, began kissing John, caressing, running mouth and hands over John’s torso. Moving downwards. John heard himself moan despite his rational mind’s protests. Another, stronger part of himself was flying high. This! Yes! Finally this! it was screaming from deep within. John found he’d wrapped his arms around the back of Sherlock’s neck, was running his own hands down Sherlock’s body.

“Mmmmmmmm...You’re not... uh... how can... you...uhhh” John rolled his eyes back as Sherlock’s hand slid down and found John’s erection. Sherlock gave John a predatory smile, and slid down. His lips enveloped John’s cock.

“Oh Jesus, holy fuc-” Moaned John, as Sherlock’s mouth and tongue worked around him. John’s hips bucked erratically; he began moaning in earnest as Sherlock began sucking him off with great deliberation. John cried out loudly as he climaxed; a strange noise he didn’t know he was capable of. When he came to his senses a minute later, Sherlock was standing over him.

“For you John.” he said with great triumph and more than a twinge of arrogance.

“Christ. What - Sherlock...!” John pulled himself up, hugged his knees in, closed his robe. He was trembling, still confused; overwhelmed, alarmed, blissed out. Sherlock had just wound him up the way he always did - delighted and confounded him all at once, only this time it had been sexually. The scent of Alpha was lessened, but still lingered, was still there turning John on, making him feel high. Making him feel good.

Sherlock looked at John with a self satisfied grin. He turned on heel and left the room.

“Wait!” Cried John jumping up. He stormed through the flat after Sherlock. “No - no! Not in there-! Sher-!” John stopped short as he entered the bedroom. Sherlock knelt on the bed, naked. He was stroking himself slowly, looking steadily at John. His long and lean body had acquired a new layer of muscle since John had last seen him. A faint sheen of sweat lay on his pale skin. His cock was huge. A fresh cloud of pheromones already permeated the room. John felt his mouth go dry.

“Come here.” said Sherlock gently.

“No. You...get off that bed! You insufferable git!”

“Make me. Come here and make me, John.” Sherlock said as he continued to stroke himself slowly. John cursed inwardly; he was already hard again. This was unlike anything he’d seen from Sherlock before. How was the cold bastard so good at this? As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock let out a low moan that made John tremble.

“I can’t wait for your forever John.” he said. “I’ll be honest - I came here to fuck you, right here in this bed. But if you leave me to my own devices, I _will_ have to entertain myself...” he dropped his head. After a beat, he raised it slightly; inspired. Sherlock turned away from John. Arched his back as he leaned down.

“Mmmmmm... which one belongs to your distraction?” Sherlock said pushing his face into one of the pillows. He still worked his enormous erection slowly, consistently. Drops of clear liquid beaded at the tip.

“What are you doing!” John cried out in a panic.

“No...that’s you. I love smelling you, I can’t get enough of this; can’t tell you how happy it makes me...ah, this one. Alpha. Not me. A disgusting, nasty, other...” Sherlock was cut off mid thought as John barreled into him, knocking Sherlock as far from Christian’s pillow as he could manage.

“YOU COMPLETE BASTARD!” John cried as he grabbed angrily at Sherlock. The two of them rolled across the large bed for approximately ten seconds, before their limbs were hopelessly entangled and John felt the same erotic current shooting through his body. Only it was so much stronger this time. He heard Sherlock release a self satisfied sigh.

“John... oh yes John... John John John John...” whispered Sherlock as their struggle inevitably transitioned towards coital. John moaned as they moved; Sherlock had somehow ended up on top and was rocking them together, rubbing his giant cock in the wet space between John’s legs, sliding all the way up to John’s abdomen. The crazy pheromone high was washing over John again; drowning him in an undertow of pleasure he couldn’t escape. John pushed his hips helplessly into Sherlock, his own erection throbbing, wanting.

“ uh -so fucking good you fucking- why do you have to be -”

“Don’t you understand yet?” Sherlock was saying, and without warning he was pushing himself into John, filling John up, sliding out, pushing back in. John’s legs locked around Sherlock, he felt his fingers digging into into Sherlock’s back.

“haaaah! - ah - you- bastar- ha ah- I-”

“It’s for you... all for you...” Sherlock said in rough breath. John felt the beginning of an oversized knot forming at the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock pushed in and out a few more times before its rapid growth left the knot lodged and swelling in John; pressing, expanding. His erection pushed roughly against John’s prostate. John arched his back, cried out in ecstasy as he came, felt Sherlock follow seconds later with a deep moan, as he filled John’s insides with hot fluid.

“Oh god - fuck - uh - ” gasped John, eyes half closed. His body was climaxing in waves, clamping down on Sherlock, milking him, making Sherlock come in responsive bursts. Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck. He rubbed his nose and open lips against John, inhaling their mingled scents as they orgasmed over and over together.

“Mine,” exhaled Sherlock in a barely audible tone. “mine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Christian. Poor John. Poor Sherlock.  
> Why do we sometimes torture those we love?


	7. RABID

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need you. You’re mine. I can’t let you go. I won’t let you go.” Sherlock said. Long legs wrapped around John possessively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter! Since the last one was mainly just sex.
> 
> Any thoughts? Story moving too slowly?

"So, you're telling me you dumped the rich, handsome, doting, Pulitzer Prize winning, dream boyfriend for the manipulative, needy, antisocial ex?"

"Ah... yep. Did I mention the first one has a house in the Caribbean?"

"Think so. Twice actually."

"Yeah, so good. Right." John cleared his throat, looked out the window then at Natalie. "So... What's wrong with me?"

"Are you happy?" She asked hopefully.

"At Baker Street? God no..."

Natalie frowned over her coffee at John.

"How's the sex?" She ventured.

"Best of my life." answered John immediately.

"Well there's your problem, silly bastard. There's nothing like hot, self destructive sex! Can I have Christian's number if you're done with him then?"

"I'm afraid he only fancies omegas." Said John with a sympathetic smile.

"How about girls? Rebound sex is a close second to...no? Tsk. Story of my life, the good ones are always married, gay or omega-only... Even my cat seems to prefer them. She follows my neighbor round all the time..." John laughed as Natalie spun her silly anecdote. She was his closest friend at work; they'd hit it off doing A&E together ages ago. He'd even been thinking of asking her out; but then Christian had come in one night with a dog bite he'd incurred in Karachi twelve hours before.

Eight hours later (the end of John's shift) they were having drinks. Nine hours later they'd been to bed together, and twelve hours later John was accompanying Christian to Paris (it was his day off, happily) for another life changing twenty four hours.

“Thank god for rabid beasts.” John had said that night.

“Mad dog love,” Christian whispered back.

And indeed the speed and irrational intensity with which they'd fallen for each other seemed analogous.

John winced at the happy memory. Tried to sort his feelings for the millionth time. Found he couldn't. Inevitably his thoughts turned to Sherlock and a barrage of new confusing feelings hit him hard. Mostly, he felt desire, longing. This was routine, it had happened to John several times a day since he’d gotten together with Sherlock. John had become obsessed; couldn’t stop thinking about him. John was sure it was due to years of unresolved sexual tension finally being relieved and explored. Now it seemed there was nothing to be done but ride the whole thing out.

"Um hellooooo? Earth to Doctor Watson?" Natalie was saying. John blinked, widened his eyes as if waking from a dream.

"Yeah. Sorry, what?"

"You alright?"

"I'm ok...sorry... I got distracted."

"Which one were you dreaming of?"

"What?"

"C'mon John, you're in the middle of this big relationship drama... You must have been thinking about one of them. You're blushing!  I know my story wasn't that good... I bet..." Natalie smiled slyly, "I bet it was Sherlock."

John felt his already warm face turn red hot. Natalie's eyes gleamed with delight.

"Oh my god! I was right, wasn't I?"

"Sod off..."

"Haaaaaa! Look at you, you're a proper wreck over this aren't you?"

"I am. Nat, please. Stop it..."

"Okay okay. Time for me to get back anyway. Lots of people with bigger problems than which-man-do-I-want. You poor thing, you." She stood with these words and smiled affectionately.

"Coming?"

"In a minute."

" 'Kay. John...you know, it'll be alright."

John nodded.

"Thanks Nat."

John waited a few minutes then made his way to the toilet. He was in desperate need of a wank; a direct result of thinking about Sherlock, which was the second part to his new daily ritual. John had a love-hate relationship with this behavior his body had adopted. On one hand, it was bloody inconvenient. On the other, his brain was constantly swimming in a kind of self induced euphoria he was loathe to give up.

It didn’t take very long. John barely turned his thoughts to the things they’d done in Christian’s flat - to Christian’s flat over that week- before he was bracing himself against the stall's wall, coming into his hand with a stuttering exhale. The space in Kensington would never be the same, and John reflected that he might not either.

On his way back, he passed Natalie in the hallway. Her easy smile turned to something he couldn’t quite decipher. Concern and...

“You alright, John?” she said looking carefully at him.

“Fine...great actually.”

“You look a bit flushed.”

“I’m ok, really. Just rushing a bit I suppose.”

“Well, take it easy, love. Will we see you tonight for a pint or are you heading back into the arms of one of your many lovers?”

“Oh, yeah...I might join yo-”

“Oh come off it!” she said playfully elbowing him in the ribs and continued on her way.

****

…...........................

****

"Tell me how you've done it." John said many hours later. He was curled against Sherlock, the two of them relaxing in collective post coiltal bliss. John inhaled deeply the musky alpha scent that was strongest under Sherlock’s jaw. It was literally intoxicating and John floated in a cloud of happiness. His fingers lazily stroked Sherlock’s oversized cock, teasing, exploring.

“Done what.”

“You... weren't an alpha before.”

“I never told you such a thing.”

“Are you saying you were, and you were just hiding it all along? Why couldn’t I detect it?”John said. “and why... sometimes you have an alpha scent... like now... so strong... and sometimes you don’t.” He began to move his hand a bit faster.

“Omegas have terrible senses of smell.”

“It’s more than that.” John insisted. He looked at the growing, stiffening phallus in his hand. He’d seen Sherlock naked before, on more than one occasion. He would have remembered this; the enormity of the thing he now palmed. Now craved.

"You're generally unobservant, albeit slightly more perceptive than the average person. Ahh...that's nice, yes, like that."

“Did you have surgery?” John didn’t believe this was true despite his question. There was no evidence of surgical enhancement; he’d been looking.

“Mmm - For what?”

John sighed. Sherlock was never embarrassed about anything, but he was clearly being elusive now, and John didn't know why.

"You're different than you were before."

"Isn't it what you wanted."

John looked at Sherlock's face. He was looking back at John with the open, almost childlike expression he sometimes wore when he didn't understand social interactions. His hand closed over John’s, holding pleasure at bay.

"You're worried." Sherlock observed.

"It's just...This is all very unlike you..."

“I’ve been on inhibitors my whole life. I didn’t want anything as mundane as sex to get in the way of work. Now I’ve stopped taking them. You told me what you needed, and I’ve done my best to give it to you.”

“What...kind of inhibitors?”

Sherlock released John’s hand and nuzzled him gently, giving an experimental lick to just below his ear. A shudder of pleasure ran through John’s body.

"John. You've maintained I haven’t been listening. That you’ve been repeating yourself over and over again. Now perhaps you can see I have been listening. And I’ve been trying to tell you some things of my own.” Sherlock shifted, pulled John on top of him. His hands slid delicately to either side of John’s face.

“I need you. You’re mine. I can’t let you go. I won’t let you go.” Sherlock said. Long legs wrapped around John possessively.

“I love you.” The words were completely natural this time. Uninhibited.

John blinked. Stared back at the pale eyes that were looking into him with calm, self assurance. He pushed forward, offered his mouth up, closed his eyes to go where it was safe. The wonderful alpha scent mixed perfectly with his own, bringing them together in the bliss of the moment.

****

…...........................

****

“I’m sorry”

“I’m sorry”

“I’m sorry”

****

Sound and guilt woke him. He’d been dreaming of the night in the alleyway. A sick feeling lay in the pit of his stomach. John exhaled softly. Sherlock wasn’t next to him. Yet the scent of alpha was thick in the room, stronger than he’d experienced it before. Foggy from sleep and heady pheromones, John slowly realized he was still hearing the sound that had pulled him out of his dreams - something like a low, animal noise and a human voice humming. John peered through the darkness of his bedroom.

Sherlock crouched at the foot of the bed, stone still. The harsh light from the street illuminated his features oddly; had twisted his face into a strange, primal mask. Black, shark-like eyes stared at John, and John felt himself naturally avert his own. He could feel his heart beating hard. The humming had an undercurrent of a growl to it John didn’t like. He felt confused; simultaneously uneasy and amourous.

John felt himself break into a sweat, even as he instinctively stayed still. He closed his eyes. The humming grew softer, then faded. John opened his eyes. He was alone.

****  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the "happy times" in this story. :/


	8. No Chapter This week, art instead...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am very busy at the moment, so we are skipping this week.  
> I made you some fucked up art by way of apology.  
> Maybe I should apologize for that. Heh.  
> Hope to see you all next chapter...

  



	9. FIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don't want me, they don't want me... Really John," Sherlock said, "at what point do you begin to say kind rather than cruel things to me again?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, finally! ..."enjoy"!  
> You know we lovez the feedback...

221b was a bloody mess. John stood in the middle of the living room and sighed angrily. He’d been back less than a month and he was constantly questioning his decision. The condition of the flat was raising his doubt and ire yet again. Although he’d lectured Sherlock on multiple occasions on how much he’d changed, John himself hadn’t realized how true this was until he’d moved in. He scanned the living room in horror; chaos reigned everywhere he looked.

He took out his phone and sent a text. Thursday was his light day at the hospital anyway.

 It was the pinkies that had done it, pushed him over the edge. That morning he'd opened what he remembered to be a silverware drawer.

"Ughh!"

He'd instead found a nest full of squirming juvenile mice, more than he could count in a glance. Hairless and blind, they squeaked helplessly as John emptied the writhing fleshy mass of them into the bin outside. He felt like vomiting. Vermin took things to a whole new level... if the sheer number of the pinkies was any indication, the flat must be overrun. He knew there was no way to get an exterminator to visit the flat in its current state.

“If you don’t like it you're welcome to change it.” Sherlock said.

“Except you won’t stand for a housekeeper.”

“ _Absolutely not_. We can’t possibly have someone messing about in here...”  
“Look, what about just for the initial cleaning? We can be home while it happens...”

“No.” Sherlock shut his eyes and turned over on the sofa, his back to John.

"Don't. You. Fucking. Dare." John growled. When Sherlock failed to respond, John crossed the room, stood over him.

"I am not a bloody housewife, Sherlock!" He spat. "Nor am I a nineteen year old boy! I am an adult, a medical professional with a demanding schedule! I will not live in this squalor! This has to change, and it will not be from me doing the tidying!" John ended his angry speech by grabbing Sherlock's shoulder, tugged at him for emphasis. Sherlock barely moved. He opened an eye, turned very slightly to look at John.

"You're the only one that cares." He said lethargically. John’s eyes widened in anger. Sherlock sighed and rolled back into the folds of the sofa.

“Okay, talking to you is pointless; I’ll just hire a housekeeper then, shall I?”

“You won’t.”

“What?”

“You’re bluffing. You’ve got far too many tells.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later...I’m busy now.”

“HA! Now who’s bluffing? You’ve got fuckall to do today!" John was shouting, really shouting; he didn't care who heard him. " Or as far as I can tell, any days! They don’t want you down there, do the-” John gasped in surprise as his back hit the floor and the wind was knocked out of him. Sherlock had been so fast, so forceful. He pressed John into the ground, leaning over him, enraged and wild eyed. John could only look back in stunned silence.

Sherlock sat up, a strange calmness veiling the sudden rage he'd revealed.

"You don't want me, they don't want me... Really John," Sherlock said, "at what point do you begin to say kind rather than cruel things to me again?" He stood, brushed himself off.

"There is, in fact, an ongoing case I'm looking at today, if you'd care to join me." He said flatly.

"I...I have a shift at the hospital."

"Then I'll see you later."

They'd not spoken after that, and Sherlock had left almost immediately.

Now John was resigned; just once he'd get everything clean and organized, for the sake of his own health and sanity. It would be easier to maintain …maybe they could get a housekeeper to do that at least. It amazed him that he used to stay on top of this very task regularly. What a strange, dark place he'd been in back then.

With an efficiency obtained from years in the military, he began to pull the place into shape. Neatly piling up case files, putting away objects-of-interest-past, throwing away unidentifiable food remnants and destroying the colonies of mold that had grown around them; John began to gain a familiar sense of catharsis. Perhaps it hadn't been so crazy after all. Keeping Sherlock's life in order was certainly an ongoing challenge. In retrospect he'd obviously thrived on that challenge; indirectly focusing on his mess of a life through another's.

Still, this was a whole new level of chaos to address; this was devastation. The space had never been this bad, this dysfunctional, not even when he'd first moved in. John picked up a tea cup that lay shattered in pieces on the floor, neglected for god knows how long. The residue inside was dried and flaking.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was looking at a visualization of Sherlock's life without John. He picked up a fragment of the lab-or-kitchen-ware cup and held it in his palm.

_Broken_.

John felt his anger drain, replaced by the too familiar devastation _he'd_ felt with Sherlock's “death”. He was sifting through a tangible mirror image of it. No wonder Sherlock couldn't stomach the idea of a stranger doing this. Emotionally overwhelmed, John vowed to try to be more understanding. He would fix it... for both of them.

He found the coke around lunchtime.

John looked at the kit he’d found amidst a pile of nicotine patches and unmarked DVDs. It explained a lot actually. Sherlock’s mood and energy swings, his extra erratic behavior. John decided to table how he was going to think/feel/act on his discovery and continued on with his mission.

Hours later the place was transformed. It would never be as tidy as John’s own spartan, orderly room - but it was a functioning space again. He hadn’t found any more mice, but there was quite a lot of evidence that they were there.

Feeling quite weary, John made for the shower. Now that he’d stopped it began to sink in how tired he was. His limbs were actually trembling. He sighed, rubbing face in hands as the hot water ran over him. He felt as though he might have a touch of flu...

His mind, also freed from the day’s task, immediately snapped back to the one thing he didn’t feel like thinking about; Sherlock.

John moaned, suddenly lovesick and aroused. He dropped his head down, moved so the water would pummel him, flood directly over his head. He wanted to drown in something other that man; it was driving him mad. Still his hand moved to his erect cock, his body demanding the daily ritual of obsessing over his lover be fulfilled. 

This time when he finished he was rewarded with a lightheadedness and stars, nausea and the floor threatening to come up to meet him. John slid down, leaned against the shower wall, the water still running. He closed his eyes. Images of the day drifted by; all the tidying he’d done spinning itself into monotonous dreamstuff as he let a sickly sleep consume him.

 

+++

 

“John.” Sherlock’s low voice stirred the edge of his consciousness.

"John." He felt himself being pulled to his feet, was vaguely aware of a towel being wrapped around his shivering body. Sherlock rubbed John vigorously with the terrycloth, pulled him close. Alpha scent, Sherlock’s scent. Something warm and _needed_ made its way into John’s brain. For a fraction of a second, he saw pinkies wriggling in the bin.

John’s eyes snapped open. They were in his bedroom, he was under the duvet. John gazed up at Sherlock, kneeling over him. Pale eyes stared intently back.

John heard himself whimper softly. His heart was suddenly hammering in his chest. His breathing had become rapid, he felt himself salivating, tongue too large for his mouth. He was burning up, the flesh between his legs grown wet and swollen.

John whimpered again. It sounded like an outright plea this time, and he was surprised at this odd noise his body had elected to make.

Sherlock’s hand slid under the duvet and found the soft, wet opening. John shuddered and arched as long fingers slid deep inside him, coaxing, teasing, widening. John reached up, tried to pull Sherlock down.

Sherlock pressed his body to John’s. His mouth met the flesh under John’s jawline. His nose nuzzled against John's ear. Sherlock’s tongue pushed against the skin, tasting, probing, stimulating. Alternately sucking and kissing the spot where John's scent was strongest.  His hot breath tickled John in long, stuttering exhales.

John clawed weakly at Sherlock’s back. His illness made the room spin, his desire made him dizzy. They seemed one and the same.  “Please…” he finally managed in a ragged whisper. “Please…”

 

+++

 

John stares out the window. First snow teases the sky, dusts the ground. His IVs have all gone; even the one that went deep inside his chest. That is now just a bandage and profound aching memory below.

He hasn’t been drugged in some time now, down to the antibiotics which have been have finished. His room is not even locked anymore. It is pointless. He can barely walk, let alone escape.

His stomach protrudes, impossibly large and heavy; he imagines his womb swelling, pushing against his organs and greedily spreading his thighs apart as it gets bigger by the day. The children stuffed inside him shift occasionally, but only as best they can; he can feel how badly they’re crowded together.

There is a constant, warm demand between his legs; a humming, unyielding combination of pressure and hunger. He wants to give birth, to push and feel the babies inside him come out. And he wants to be fucked, wants to be impaled by a massive cock; preferably Sherlock’s, though he has trouble admitting this last part. It exhausts him, this feeling. It vibrates through his being, mind and body both.

The exterior of his stomach, too, is changed: it is hyper-erogenous. Stroking it brings intense pleasure, and a deepening of the demands his body is making of him. John tries not to touch his stomach - with varying success. Some days it feels like it’s all he has, this odd, involuntary pleasure.

John stares out the window. The sloping landscape, the woods and the moors beyond… he is sure he’s up north. Scotland, maybe. The Holmes’ have land there.

John thinks about the future. It won’t be long before he gives birth. He can’t run now… and maybe not even later… but… there are other options. John tells himself he has enough time to figure it out. He has the time to plan, and only needs to decide the ‘how’, because he already knows the ‘what’.

He will kill Sherlock. 


	10. BANYAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your body tried to go into heat. With partial success. Your system’s fighting all those drugs you take.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being sooooo patient, readers.  
> More coming soon...

He can feel the tree; for it’s body is his, the roots growing, twisting down through his own pelvic floor deep into the earth. He can feel the tree; for its body is Sherlock’s; the strength of its trunk a collective column growing up through him, reaching towards the sky lustfully. They are twined together; he and Sherlock, who sits behind, who’s pushed deep up inside John. The banyan envelops them; they grow out of it or perhaps it from them; they are one and the same.

His legs are spread, the tree holding him wide open, ankles to thighs they keep him so. His toes disappear into the earth along with the sprawling roots that pull him down even as the trunk pushes him up. His stomach grows before his eyes; taking all the space between his splayed legs. It swells and rolls, for he is full of life and an unyielding building pressure. Sherlock’s face is buried in John’s shoulder, he moves into John from behind, thrusting slowly, breathing hard. His arms wrap around John, long pale fingers digging into John's chest. He too is feeling the power of it; is encapsulated in their collective fecundity.

Sherlock groans, and John feels him spill his seed, drenching John's already engorged womb, filling him with more children. Sherlock arches back, shuddering, and suddenly something shifts inside John; it translates as a demand that erupts in the form of a wet burst and an enormous head pushing down into his pelvis. It drops heavily through him, making its way out from between his legs; forcing his tight flesh to stretch and bulge with its girth. John gasps as his body contracts around the baby he is bearing. It moves through his birth canal slowly but steadily, getting closer to coming out with each contraction. Still he feels Sherlock inside him, moving, mating, breeding him. John groans in pain and heavy pleasure as he is forced to grow, as he is stretched and his body is made to open. The baby is huge, it turns slowly as it slides out from his slick wet flesh, its exit ending in another burst of warm liquid. His belly is soft and for a moment, and then the growing begins again, John arching and trembling with the all consuming pleasure of it.

He is vaguely aware of the wolf cub as it slips away into the trees. The distraction of being bound and bred - over and over - takes precedent.

John wriggles, unable to relieve the urge to buck against Sherlock. The tree restrains him though it all. Only his head is truly free. He tilts it back. Above them the canopy of leaves offer shade and something more. John understands looking at the branches, laden heavy with fruit, each one a child he must bear. His destiny impresses on him as his growing belly reaches its limit and he begins to contract with the deep pleasure-pain of giving birth.

"You... did.. this..." John grunts as he works to expel the next child. He moans and wails, pushing and undulating until there is a fat baby sticking out of him.  With another grunt he realizes the next one is coming immediately. There is no respite to be had this time.

"You..nnnnngh...god!...you..hrrrrrrrn!...did this to me... to...us...haaaaaahhhh!" The child pops from between his thighs with a neat gush of fluid, sending John temporarily into an orgasmic state. Its sibling is quick to follow, amplifying the sensation as it drops.

Sherlock still moves inside of John, his breath heavy with what could be passion or desperation.

"Stop me." His hot breath tickles John's ear. His hands slide down to John's rapidly growing belly. They roam the surface, making John gasp and arch and wriggle, even as he makes another giant child burst from between John's legs.

"Why don't you stop me..."

+++

****

“Feeling better?” Sherlock cradled John against his chest, fingers stroking John's hair with deliberate sentiment. John nodded silently, his arms wrapped around his lover's pale torso. The sickness had gone away, along with several hours of clear thought. Now he merely felt euphoric, if not exhausted.

“I… don’t know what happened…” he whispered.

Sherlock buried his nose in John’s hair, inhaled deeply.

“Your body tried to go into heat. With partial success. Your system’s fighting all those drugs you take.” His fingers absently traced the space around John's navel.

John raised his head enough to look at Sherlock, whose alpha scent was definitely adding to his bliss.

“How do you know? I don't -”  
“Obvious. For one, I could smell it - can still - when I got back Thursday afternoon…”

“Even in the shower?”

“The whole flat reeked of you, John. Incidentally, it reeks of us now.”

“Hang on - Thursday - what’s today? - How long have I been -”

“Sunday. That is the other thing. Your behavior was textbook in some regards. Including the blackout factor…” Sherlock’s arms released as John jumped out of bed clumsily, nearly throwing himself to the ground in the process.

“Oh my god! The hospital! You should have-”

“What? Woken you? Snapped you out of it? How? if anything need run its course its a biological process like that one; the body fighting an unnatural element should be left alon-”

“Did you call them for me? Tell them I was ill? Anything?” Sherlock’s brows furrowed very slightly.

“What time is it?!?” John glanced at the wall clock, scrambled to pull his clothes on. He had just enough time to get to his shift…  
“You probably ought to shower.” Sherlock looked relaxed as he lazed on the bed, one hand sliding between his legs as he watched John, eyes gleaming. “Or you could just come back to bed…”

“No!” John tore through the flat looking for his phone. It sat amongst a pile of casework that was heaped next to Sherlock’s chair. John snatched it up and began to text wildly. It wasn’t until he'd hit send that his brain caught up.

The flat was a disaster.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re quite aggressive for an omega.” Sherlock says abruptly. He moves to hover over John’s face. Latex coated fingers drop gently to stroke John’s brow, and pale, flat eyes suddenly lock with his own.
> 
> “It’s always been a key point of attraction for me; your strength, the contrast your nature holds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I said this already?  
> I lost some chapters of this story to the gods of digital media.  
> So it's taken some time to rewrite 'em.   
> Sorry for the delay. Thanks for your patience.  
> Time to finish this thing off...

 

“John.” Natalie caught his arm as he rounded the corner.

“Hi…”

“Oh my god! You look terrible!”

John forced himself to smile, even if he wasn’t feeling it.

“I’m okay, just a little under the weather.”

Natalie gave him an incredulous look that made him instantly regret his words. She was the one who had covered for him, after all.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a prick,” he said sheepishly. “It was just a kneejerk response-” His friend’s expression softened immediately.

“I told them you were ill…”

“I know it, thanks.”

“Come have a cup of tea?”

“Can’t… no, really! I haven’t been back long enough - Mason only just finished tearing me a new one…”

“John…” John felt a pang of guilt as Natalie’s face was consumed by worry.

“Later...okay? Just...give me a couple of hours…”

 

+++

 

The trashing of the flat had pushed John over the edge.

“What. The fuck.”

Sherlock did not bother to look up from the book he was reading. While John had been rushing to get showered and dressed he’d wandered out in his sheet, and plopped himself into his chair comfortably.

“Sherlock!”

“Hmmm?”

“What is this?”

“Is that a real question.”

“I spent hours tidying this dump! hours!”

“Mmm. Couldn’t be helped.” Sherlock stretched his long legs out in a state of complete relaxation; the gesture could not have been more contrary to how John was feeling.

John glared at Sherlock wordlessly, too furious to know where to begin.

“Heat.” said Sherlock calmly without bothering to look up. “You’ve been party to the destruction of the flat as much as I, John.”

“Heat! Heat did not rifle through all the bloody drawers and cupboards or pull out all your case files onto the bloody floor-”

“Waiting for you to regain consciousness was dull. As was taking you in that state.”

“Lovely! I’m so happy to hear you’re not into fucking me while I’m incapacitat -”

John stopped himself in a moment of realisation.

“The coke’s gone.” he snarled, “I dumped it.”

Sherlock’s mouth pulled into its wide, mocking smirk.

 

+++

 

“Dr. Watson?” The nurse’s voice held exactly the right tremor to bring John back from his angry reverie. With a start, he felt the contortion in his face, the rage. John looked at the confused and frightened old man in front of him. Smoothed his features. Cleared his throat in mortification.

“I’m - I’m terribly sorry Mr. Wentworth.” He said taking a tiny stumble backwards, “Nurse Ross will finish up with you now. Please excuse me…”

 

+++

 

He watched the last vial fill with blood. The needle in his arm gleamed as he slid it out smoothly. It gave him an odd feeling, akin to deja vu. Except he worked with needles quite frequently, so… so what? He thought.

“So you’re a mess.” He muttered at the little glass tubes.

John readied the samples for the lab with a note to fast track them. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He needed some answers. As he walked down the hall to drop the samples off he realised he was feeling lightheaded - and horny - again.

The person that looked back at him from the men’s room mirror gave him a start. His face was puffy, skin quite pale. The dark circles under his eyes stood out against his sickly pallor. He looked more than tired, he appeared genuinely ill. John stared at the trembling spectre before him in confusion.

“Hiya…”

Natalie looked up from the chart she was reading.

“Hi...” she smiled uneasily.

“Are you busy now?”

“...No… Now is fine actually…”

 

+++

 

“Where is everyone?” He asks as calmly as he can.

The washcloth runs over the surface of his skin, making his breath fall short, his eyes roll, his body shudder in pleasure. John wills himself to hold still for a moment, then changes his mind. Fuck it. It’s not as though Sherlock will be fooled, could possibly fail to notice. He sees all.

Sherlock makes no change in his actions. As John writhes in helpless pleasure he continues to clean with quick, efficient movements. John’s never been made so powerless, so immobilised by any of the past pregnancies. His arms are in the cables as usual. They make him feel that much heavier, the light suspension tugging him upwards. He lies supine and swollen, at the mercy of a sponge bath.

The staff might have done this sort of thing, but John hasn’t seen them in a long time. He glances at Sherlock’s face. It’s partially obscured in a surgical mask again. He is wearing gloves again. It seems to be the new standard, along with being oddly, exceptionally distant. His eyes - his eyes are strange. Impenetrable. More so than John’s seen before. And something else. Or perhaps its the absence of something John’s seeing. There is no alpha scent. Not that he can feel sure, perhaps its just very faint. 

The cloth is wrung out, refreshed with warm, clean water. When it moves from his chest onto his hypersensitive, overgrown belly John cries out. He’s not drugged, he thinks as his cock bobs against the giant swell of his flesh, but his hormones are out of control. He wants, he needs… he is gravid and trapped, under pressure and desire and he swears he can feel himself expanding, albeit slowly...

His cock is at full attention, dying to be sucked, touched, squeezed. Anything. His body is open, leaking almost as though he’s in heat, dying to be filled. He aches. He wants to demand Sherlock to fuck him. Or beg, whatever it takes.

“Are you on suppressants?” he gasps instead as Sherlock moves down the dark centreline of his belly and brushes his erection aside. “Are you- ha -are you high?”

A moment later he groans as Sherlock gently grabs and begins to clean his cock and balls, the coarse texture of the cloth making John wriggle with sensation. He gulps air in, grateful to finally get release, anticipating, until Sherlock abruptly stops and moves - further down, cold and clinical.

The washcloth meets the soft, wet opening that is puffy and swollen all the time now, his body signaling that it desperately needs an alpha (his alpha ideally) to fuck him, to trigger birth. It hasn’t worked out too well in the past, John thinks, but now... Now he’d-

His thoughts break down under the movement of the cloth and the pleasure it brings.

Sherlock wipes him as clean as nature will allow, and John bucks his hips feebly and groans. He’s hopelessly turned on, body excited but really nowhere near climaxing when the cloth is removed. A fresh one is used to start on his feet. John wants to scream.

This new behaviour is killing him. Its got a cumulative effect, he needs release badly. There’s a fluttering in his belly that won’t go away. His fear and revulsion of Sherlock have taken a back seat to carnal desire. His clear headedness and state of frustration is making him cranky and brave, even if he can’t move. 

“Where is The Alpha, Sherlock?” he demands. “What’s happened to him?

Why - why don’t you touch me anymore? ”

 John stops in disbelief at his own words. He grips nervously at the cables that suspend his arms, heart pounding with what he may have just invoked. 

Sherlock straightens up. Looks John in the eyes with his odd, too-sterile gaze. For a terrifying second John thinks Sherlock is not ignoring him, rather, Sherlock cannot understand him.

“You’re quite aggressive for an omega.” Sherlock says abruptly. He moves to hover over John’s face. Latex coated fingers drop gently to stroke John’s brow, and pale, flat eyes suddenly lock with his own.

“It’s always been a key point of attraction for me; your strength, the contrast your nature holds.”

His tone is nearly as flat as his eyes and smacks of stasis, of the empty, of something like sleep but greater. John shivers as the icy stare trickles through his own hardened gaze, goes deep inside him like poison water. He doesn’t want to lose, no matter how compelled he is to look away from Sherlock’s current flavour of madness.

Sherlock’s face is close, a powerful medicinal scent wafting from his mask as he exhales smoothly. John’s heart pounds in his ears and he can feel his own panicky rhythm as he breathes in Sherlock’s face. He is unsure whether he pants from fear, aggression, or desire. For the briefest of moments Sherlock’s eyes become deep and something under the mask seems to shift - oddly, improperly, enough that John is distracted. His gaze falters. His eyes drop.

Sherlock snorts like a bored predator, and straightens up. The cold returns to him like frost crawling on a pane of glass.

“Physically, you’re doing quite well now.” Sherlock says and turns away to pack up

the washing paraphernalia.

“but your behaviour would suggest it’s time to begin to subdue you again.”

Before John can blink a syringe has been plunged into his neck.

“This is quite mild, but will still keep you calm. Too much adrenaline would not be healthy just now.”

John feels angry tears spring to his eyes. He keeps his gaze steady this time as he asks the only question he really cares to know the answer to.

“Where are they?” he says, then nearly whispers, “Please… Sherlock...”

Sherlock’s hand moves out of sight, above John’s head, and John feels his right hand snap free.

“Strong little thing. Mine.” Sherlock praises softly.

John snarls, defeated rage and sexual frustration inspiring him to swipe at his captor above. His fingertips brush the mask just as the effects of the drug begin to kick in and John cannot help but cry out, the world warping along with Sherlock’s face.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You really think he’s been - turning himself into an alpha, through - some chemical process?”
> 
> “He’s really really brilliant, Natalie. You don’t know. He can do anything.”

"Wouldn't he tell you? I mean..."

“I've asked him, he's lying. You don’t believe me…”

“You really think he’s been - turning himself into an alpha, through - some chemical process?”

“He’s really really brilliant, Natalie. You don’t know. He can do anything.”

“But John, it's not possible. People can’t just switch genders with drugs alone. Not to the degree you’ve described. You know it as well as I do. A full transgender procedure requires some level of reassignment surgery…”

John shook his head adamantly, tried to stay calm.

“He’s different, changed himself somehow. No surgery. It hasn’t been long enough, and anyway, I’d spot it… And - I think - I think it’s affecting me,” he took a deep breath. “I think he’s been - I don’t know, drugging me… making me part of his experiment… he's done it before...and..” John looked down. “There's... also been... some… cocaine..." he furrowed his brows, staring at his trembling hands around the cheap cup.

“John, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that…”

Something in his friend’s voice made John look up sharply.

“About - wait, what?”

Natalie’s face was too soft with a surplus of sympathy.

“I - John, I’m no saint, but whatever you’ve been taking… it’s too much, you’re -”

“What _I’ve_ been taking!?” He hadn’t meant to shout, but neither did he care. Natalie drew back in alarm. Closed her eyes emphatically and spoke slowly, trying to keep the conversation calm.

“I know what it’s like burning the candles at both ends. For god’s sake, we’ve worked some long nights together, haven't we?”

“Natalie- how can you- it’s not me it’s-” John struggled, tripping between feelings of betrayal, shock, anger.

Natalie looked at her hands.

“While you were … ill … he came by… he told me he was worried…”

She glanced back up nervously for the briefest of seconds.

“Don’t be upset! He didn’t need to! It's obvious... You’ve been teetering out of control for weeks…he was...just...concerned. He was ...kind."

The two stared at each other.

“I am not on drugs.” John said flatly. “At least not - not of my own free will.” He blinked rapidly and turned away from Natalie’s expression with a scowl.

The little room around them clamoured with obliviousness, full of people preoccupied with their break or the comforting loved ones.

"Maybe you could both use some help, I don't know..." Her words were clipped, full of doubt.

"Christ. Why would you believe him over me, Natalie, why?"

“There was a doctor I worked under when I was a house officer.” She said after a moment.

“What?” John looked at her, eyes narrowed.

“He - he was really brilliant, amazing. We all wanted to be like him. I mean, he was just meant to be a doctor, you know? Had all the answers, just worked through problems like they were nothing. No fear. Unstoppable. And his bedside manner… it was, god. I slept with him once.” Natalie laughed nervously and looked down. “I need a smoke.”

“Why are you telling me this? Natalie?”

“I - he’s not around anymore. You know why?”

“Is this a bloody drug overdose story?”

“He was never a real doctor, John. They only discovered it later… after he’d disappeared, after others got hurt…It’s why I had to repeat some time… I hadn’t actually learned from a real doctor. And yet he's still the best I've ever worked under..."

"Sorry, I don't understand."

"I'm taking about self perception. How powerful it can be... and how destructive."

John stared angrily across the table and then rose abruptly.

"I don't need this. I'm not delusional."

"You're in denial about something. Your story doesn't make sense... John, wait, please... Don't go..."

+++

He knows he's dreaming, but it doesn't make his emotions any less vitriolic.

"Why are you doing this?" He demands.

Sherlock is stroking John's hair, curled up against him in the bed.

"Because I love you." He says in a hushed tone.

"Bullocks. If you loved me you wouldn't."

"Then why ask such a dull, predictable question? You're not normally dull..."

The long fingers smooth over and over. It feels nice, even if John is raging inside.

"I want to have babies with you." John finally spits. His anger is more than he knows what to do with.

"Shhh." Soothes Sherlock, "I know." There is a terrible sadness, an admission of surrender in his voice.

"I hate you."

"I know." The words are a deep and melancholy sigh.

I don't want to be an omega. John thinks. I don't want to feel like this. Sherlock squeezes his hand in gentle solidarity.

John can feel his brain grinding in his sleep, working to conjure a Very Important Thing that must be said.

"I want these ones. I want to keep them, to put them somewhere safe." He says at last. In the dream he is not swollen; Sherlock's arms have wrapped around his slim form in a gentle lovers' embrace. John knows though, that he is full of children, the same ones in the waking world he is trying to fight for in the dream.

"Where will you put them?" Sherlock asks supportively as he nuzzles John's shoulder softly from behind.

John's body is warm with pleasant sensation.

"I'll hide them from you." John answers, and he is confused. "Isn't that what you've been doing?"

"Well. Maybe. We don't know. Hiding or keeping or killi-"

"No." John cannot let the line of thought continue. Not in waking life, nor here. Something is broken, and the dream world disturbed, begins to crumble.

"John."

"No!"

John struggles, grabbing and twisting, even as Sherlock continues to hush him, tries to keep him calm. John is too agitated, already fighting his way up from sleep, and the struggle has become all too familiar.

"John!"

"Stop it!" He bellows, but now Sherlock is pushing him, pinning him down and parting his legs, forcing a hand between his thighs. John's hands grab at the broad shoulders above him.

"John! John!"

John's eyes snap open. He finds he is in much the same position: twisted, holding Sherlock by the shoulders, as Sherlock ruts against him, a surgical mask hiding the mouth that groans and calls his name. There is something lodged inside John, he doesn't know what, but it's sending waves of pleasure throughout his gravid body. He is writhing, making a strange sound. High pitched. Omega. He forces the sound to become his voice, changes it into human words. It is an echo of his dream world protests.

"No! Stop it! Stop i-!"

As John digs his fingers into Sherlock's flesh, he realizes in horror that this struggle didn't exist a moment ago, that only a moment ago this frenzy was something like consensual, if not exactly conscious. He is trying to shove his rapist away frantically even as it becomes clear to him that his resistance is new.

John can feel his breath quicken. He pants with effort and struggle.

The sudden fight ignites Sherlock. John sees it clear as day; Sherlock's body trembles, his eyes blaze with renewed alpha aggression. John's name turns into a series of low noises, an inhuman growling that frightens him.

Force comes quickly. John is held down, so fat and feeble from his pregnancy that his efforts to fight are in the end, laughable. Still he thrashes, even if weakly.

"Mm-! Stop!"

Sherlock ruts, thrusts himself against John until he ejaculates. Again and a third time, and then Sherlock is rubbing his semen into John's skin possessively.

The thing inside his body turns out to be a vibrating plug Sherlock pulls out angrily; Sherlock shoves himself deep into John instead, still making noises like a beast.

John groans in spite of himself. Sherlock is huge, his thick erection far bigger than the discarded toy. The force with which he moves makes John arch his back feebly. His body shakes with its usual traitorous pleasure.

He's just reaching climax when the bite comes. John sees stars it hurts so much. He doesn't scream, just inhales in sharp surprise as the teeth sink into his flesh. It's an unforgiving spike of pain in the usual place, that tender spot between his neck and shoulder that he's been claimed from more than once.

The pain doesn't ebb, it stays and grows, shoots through him down to his fingertips. Cruel lips suckle his flesh, catch the blood that flows from him. Tears spring to John's eyes, roll down and tickle his temples.

He'd thought he'd become accustomed to being bitten. He hasn't, and anyway, this time it's deep, too deep. For a moment he wonders if Sherlock means to devour him literally this time. John clenches his eyes, gasping, does his best to ride the pain. His limbs twitch under a melange of confusing sensations.

When Sherlock shudders and grows with a load moan, (his knot stretching and plugging cruelly) the hot liquid that pours out of him is no less potent than anything else Sherlock's given John.

John feels it as clearly as any hit of any drug he's ever had. It's a warm ecstasy exploding in his pelvis, spreading through the rest of his body from where he's being filled with come. It's pouring out of Sherlock in waves, John's body is milking him of it, greedy for the fluid  that's giving him an instant high: making it possible to ignore, even somehow enjoy the burning in his shoulder, the ache in his passage. He is utterly full, the flood in his birth canal making his cervix twitch.

And then his own climax takes him, ecstasy intensified and spreading over his entire being, and he's not sure he understands quite why or how but for a brief moment he feels he loves his alpha.

They tremble together, he doesn't know for how long. The only sound is of John's own breathing; a laboured, heavy pant that he can't control.

The euphoric sensation turns into tiny vibrations as it fades, leaving something else. John groans. His body aches and contracts, womb becoming taut as his panting grows heavier. The sensation is familiar. He groans again as his body burns through the last little bit of pleasure, revealing an exquisite, underlying pain.

Sherlock pushes himself up shakily with an agonised sound. His head hangs low, he seems spent and uncertain. Through a mass of dark curls John sees the mask; slipped around his chin, it is soaked in blood and saliva.

John stares as Sherlock stumbles, nearly falling backwards off the bed, a pale trembling arm shielding his face.

There is too much blood, it is all over Sherlock's face and teeth and...

"Sherlock-!" John’s voice is just above a frightened whisper.

Sherlock is already staggering from the room though, his body convulsing oddly. John hears the crash of metal instruments against the floor as a side table is overturned.

He groans again as another contraction grips him. He's in pain and lightheaded... Bleeding. He has to stop the bleeding he thinks. He claws at the linens around him and holds them against himself, applies as much pressure as he can to his wound even though it’s agony just to touch. His heartbeat is as erratic as his breath. Maybe, he thinks, this is it. But no, he wants to fight for the life inside him, it can’t be over.

John closes his eyes.

He will get his breath under control.

He will not let himself bleed out.

He will not die, not today.

John slips into a familiar state of semi consciousness, Sherlock's bloody handprint by the door : a stark impression through the haze.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this story (still) very confusing? I'm genuinely curious, as my intention is that what's happening become less convoluted over time... please tell me... (and if 'yes' perhaps 'what part of it' if you don't mind) thank you   
> love, okbutjusthisonce


	13. CONGEAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm calling to advise you to change your course of action."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! So many thanks to those of you who are still reading and for those who write in...apologies this is taking so long... life gets in the way. Hopefully next chapter next week. Much love, -ok

He didn't want to go back to Baker Street.

The thought of another argument with Sherlock was too exhausting at the moment. John longed to remain as he was: standing outside the pub with a pint, watching people flow through Soho, chain smoking and trying not to think about his life as much as possible. He was failing spectacularly on the latter. Anger boiled inside him, as if he'd been made to swallow a belly full of lava that continued to heat and bubble within.

A young couple walked by; two alphas holding hands. No doubt off to one of the area's gay bars. They appeared so comfortable with each other that it filled him with a strange kind of self pity that sent the anger inside him churning with renewed heat. John took a deep draw from his glass, as if to try and quench his emotion with cold ale. Under it all, he was swimming in self loathing for smashing his relationship with Christian to pieces. John missed him, the love and stability Christian had provided. Everything had been so bloody easy between them. He suddenly wanted to look at photos, to see Christian's face. He took a long drag off his B&H and reached for his mobile.

He didn't have it. For a moment he was in a panic searching until he remembered: Natalie had phoned and messaged several times. Irritated, he'd ignored it. Inspired by his own cross behaviour he'd then sent a text to Sherlock saying he'd be working all night, and had promptly switched his mobile off. Now the phone lay discarded in a drawer in his office. John exhaled in relief. The disconnect felt quite good, actually.

"Lost something?" The woman next to him asked. She was was lavishly attired with short red hair that reminded him of an eighties pop star.

"Ah, I thought I had but I'm okay now." John half muttered.

"Sure you are." The woman flashed him an alluring smile.

"Well, I might be losing my mind."

"As long as you've not lost your lighter." She said pulling out a cigarette.

He chuckled and gave her a light as she leaned close to him.

"You're waiting for someone?" Asked the woman. John looked at her more closely. She was tall with broad shoulders; probably an alpha or perhaps a macho beta. Her gender was masked in layers of artificial scent, as complex and thick as the makeup on her face. The woman looked at him attentively, her pale blue eyes wanting. The idea of lying in a stranger's bed was intriguing; it meant he could pretend none of his other romantic woes existed.

"You, of course."

"That's convenient then, innit." She said.

They both laughed lightly.

"I'm John." He said.

"I know."

John gave a puzzled smile, confused by this aspect of the game.

"What?"

Before the woman could answer, her mobile rang. She handed it to him without so much as a glance at its screen.

"It's for you, Dr.Watson."

He looked stupidly at the woman before taking the phone from her.

"Hello John."

"Christ. What the hell do you want?" John asked Mycroft.

"I do apologise that this conversation isn't taking place in person." Said Mycroft, "I'm rather preoccupied at the moment, although perhaps not so much as you. After all, you have bitten off quite a bit more than you can chew, haven't you?" Mycroft crooned in his usual smooth tone of condescension.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're back in my brother's life."

"I'm - so what, are you gonna ask me to spy on him again then?"

"On the contrary. I'm calling to advise you to change your course of action." Mycroft said calmly.  
John's brows furrowed in flustreed confusion. The woman had moved closer to him, placing a conspiratol finger to her lips.

"Shh..."

"I - I don't understand."

"You do understand. You're a doctor, after all." Mycroft insisted. "You know what's good for you as well as what's bad."

The woman draped her hands over his shoulders, ran her fingers over him lightly, pleased. "You're saying you want me to break up with Sherlock." John said.

"You do understand the significance of your blood types being incompatible. Terrible things could transpire."

"Hang on, blood types?" John asked, confused.

"Your being OA and he AA is a recipe for disaster."

"I've never heard of those, I don't know what you mean." But Mycroft wasn't listening.

"You are familiar with the results of cobra venom being introduced to human blood." He said. John shuddered then, for the woman had begun to press her body into his and grind against him. Her arms enveloped his body, they wrapped over his own and snaked down to the back of his trousers. An alpha scent suddenly made its way into his nostrils.

"You smell sooooooooooo good." She whispered into his neck.

“Variations for omegas can be linked to the balance of the equilibria between the clot formation and its dissolution, which is physiologically determined by hormonal content.” Said Mycroft.

"I -" John shuddered again, pleasure was beginning to overtake him.

He glanced inside the pub. An image was being projected. A nature documentary, or perhaps several clips from different ones. John watched the images wrap around the dark wood and mirthful patrons. A black mamba spit hatefully at a man with a knife on the back wall. Wolves fucked under the taps and over peoples' backs. A lion ripping something apart fell across an old man's face as he laughed, his yellowed teeth made red with flickering blood. John stared at the images. The woman's hands had moved round the front. Under his pants she stroked and brought him to full arousal, was working his body. Her breath was short and fast in his ear.

"All omega, pure." She whispered.

“Its dysfunction, caused by alpha-omega activity, leads to the loss of its capacity to yield monomers that polymerise into fibrin and leads to the loss of action as a cofactor in platelet aggregation.” Mycroft continued. “Fibrinogen is the specific substrate of the thrombin, a serine protease and the key enzyme of emotional coagulation.”

"I can’t understand. What... is this?" John managed to say.

"It's best to end things now, before you become any more coagulated. You see what it's doing to your mind as it is. I can send a car for you." Mycroft spoke quickly, his voice distant and distraught now, as if he were fading away against his will.

"Mine..." She whispered. Her voice was low and certain. The alpha scent was getting stronger. John felt his jaw, neck and shoulder being kissed, licked, nuzzled, sucked. He wriggled in pleasure and in a strange, growing anxiety.

"It's too late." Someone said, "Now you must run."

From behind the darkness of the bar a figure began to emerge. Pale and sinewy it was twisted and human-ish in form. It possessed a shaggy animal head John found he couldn't look directly at. The alpha scent was coming from it, pungently oppressive. It became difficult to breathe as the pheromones hit him in waves, stimulating, suffocating. The beast crawled up on the bartop and across it, making its way towards them. John had a glimpse of a bony spine and dark hair that ran along the ridge of its back from its head, of human hands with sharp, dirty nails. Its naked form moved towards him with slow, predatory focus. Behind it, the snake had killed the man. Over it, the lion ate its fill. Around them the wolves still fucked, insatiable. His own body was in a frenzy of sensation, the woman's mouth moving over his neck and jaw: stimulating him, her hands moving his cock rhythmically.

John watched, paralysed, understanding the beast would pounce on him, that its big head would raise, that he would be forced to look into the face of the thing that was going to get him. From the dark places in the pub a chorus of voices began screaming.

He groaned, at the precipice of climax, terrified and helpless, rooted to the spot.

"All mine. Mine. Mine. Run. Run. Mine." Urged the woman's voice in his left ear. Her hands roamed his body as she spoke. The beast came closer.

"Yes, do run, Doctor Watson," Mycroft crackled faintly in his other ear.

The savage, naked thing on the bar top crouched. It arched it's back, muscled, coiled, ready to spring. John shook in fear, The screaming grew louder. The woman's head pushed between his legs, her mouth swallowing him greedily.

"Run! John! Run! Run!"

John shouted, his cries mixing with the others' as ecstasy consumed him and the thing lept to make it's claim.

Raw fear and orgasmn jerked him into consciousness. John gasped, panted, heard himself making noises like a helpless animal. The sound of screaming remained. Shadows shifted, the darkness rustled. His heart pounding, John lay very still and slowly began to reorient himself to the waking world.

Soho.

He'd rented a room in Soho for the night, not wanting to return to Baker Street. The drunken cries of the crowds drifted up to him through the cracked window. They'd provided the soundtrack at the end of his nightmare. Now the dream was breaking apart, fragmenting and muddling his thoughts. He sat up slowly, soaked in his own sweat, splattered with his own semen, recalling his unfamiliar surroundings.

The room he was in was lit from the streets and was both small and stuffy. It was normally used as part of the brothel that operated one floor below. As a result, it stank of sex and pheromones, cheap perfume and artificial gender tags. It was also one of the few places he knew he could check in anonymously and pay cash. Perfect for a bit of much needed privacy. He’d come here after the pub.

John rubbed his face and exhaled heavily, still feeling traces of fear and passion from his nightmare. When he inhaled, something caught his attention and he stopped.

He inhaled again, suspiciously, more deeply this time, then began sniffing wildly at the air, the bed sheets, himself. He tried desperately to separate, distinguish the melange of people the room held. John jumped up, cursing his own olfactory shortcomings. He was sure he wasn’t imagining things. It was when he crossed the room to examine the door that he saw the note. Waiting for him in the dark, it was a little piece of evidence to prove his paranoia true. John felt a terrible sensation in the pit of his stomach. Anger and fear churned together with something like craving, longing. He picked up the piece of paper. The scent on it revived the passion he'd felt in the dream and his cock jumped to attention.

_The game is afoot. Collect your phone and meet me at the address I text you. Mind the hostess here, she knows a thing or two about deadly poisons._

John stared down at the note for a long time. A woman’s laugh cut through the collective noise and drifted up from the street. He crumpled the paper angrily into his hand, then held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. In exhausted resignation, he dragged himself down the hall to the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Run John Run...


	14. The Alpha and the Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tonight was perfect." Rumbled Sherlock, “you know it as well as I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hrm... this chapter gets kinda rapey towards the end...

"Over, it's over!" John muttered again. Ranting to himself was not a good sign, he knew. His distress was getting the better of him. He shouldn't be doing any of this. He should be packing his things, getting them out of Baker Street, going anywhere but to Sherlock. The nightmare had clearly been telling John to get the fuck away.

John pulled his phone from the top drawer of his desk. As far as he could tell, the bastard hadn't even been here, he'd just figured out - knew - what John had done, where he had gone for the night. Of course he had. He'd found John, summoned him, and now John found himself obeying despite his anger.

"Scratch that, molested then summoned!" He growled. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck!" John paced the room, working himself up, trying to calm himself down. The nightmare's feelings still fluttered inside him, it had conjured real fear. Sherlock's actions on top of it ensured John was a wound-up mess. He needed a sedative. If he were his own patient, he would sedate himself. A large dose of suppressants wouldn't be bad either.

The room where the drugs were kept was right next to his office. He didn't want to be seen at all, his coworkers were simply another source of strife at the moment. John slipped into the corridor quickly, unlocked the door and went in. Thanks in part to the odd hour he nearly made it out of the building, but for Nurse Ross who briefly cornered him in her usual hapless manner. Twenty minutes later, he was feeling much more relaxed as he sped towards Morden in an almost pleasant haze.

Along the way, he replayed the conversation he intended to have with Sherlock. John would let him have it, then break things off once and for all. Sherlock was too erratic, too different now, had been since his return. The boundaries he was breaking were too much. Whatever he was doing to John, he'd have to confess. John would move out, he'd begin to straighten out his life, maybe, just maybe patch things up with Christian-

"This is as far as I can go, mate." The taxi had come to an abrupt halt what seemed like miles away from the address John had. There were cops barricading the way in all directions.

"Bloody hell."

"Looks like a big one." Agreed the driver, "the kind you won't be readin' about for a while."

+++

"You're late." Sherlock knelt on darkened earth, barely turned from whatever is was he was looking at.

"I'm not. I came as it suited me. Sherlock, did you tell Natalie I'm -"

"If you had risen directly after orgasm, showered, collected your phone, and come, you would have arrived thirty minutes sooner. You did something else."

"I - did- ?!" John sputtered in disbelief, "how about you spreading the rumour at my place of employment that I'm on drugs?!?" His practiced speech already gone to seed, he spit the words helplessly through clenched teeth, trying his best to keep his voice down, but it was proving difficult.

Sherlock turned to him.

"Aren't you?" He said flatly.

"No!"

"You seem to be on something right now. You've definitely loaded up on hormonal suppressants, I can barely smell you."

"You-" John's words died in the air as Sherlock stood and came towards him, and John suddenly saw the crime scene. He blinked in stunned silence as he began to understand what he was looking at.

Sherlock was staring at him, an intensified vision of his old self in that moment. He stood, pale eyes blazing with intelligence and adrenalin, nostrils flaring at the horror of what lay before them. Determined, his passion obvious, he looked unstoppable.

John had never seen him more powerful, attractive.

"They need our help, John."

+++

It wasn't until the next afternoon they returned to Baker Street.

John sank into his chair in exhaustion. Sherlock moved around the flat, pacing, thinking. When the electric kettle clicked, they both knew John would get up, make the tea that would fuel them for another round. It was all so familiar, yet so much darker this time.

They’d worked on site until long after dawn. By that time the mass grave had been fully revealed. Twelve children; babies really. Sherlock insisted there were more. John felt ill at the thought.

"At least five." He’d boomed. Confident and commanding, he’d sent people scrambling all night.

The authorities had only recovered twelve identifiable bodies so far, but John knew Sherlock was always right. John had no doubt that the dire and puzzling nature of the case was why Sherlock had been called in. The police were already baffled as to how anyone could use a public space so effectively, undetected.

“We must review St Helier Hospital’s records.” Sherlock had stopped, gone to stand by the window.

“Maternity or death."John yawned. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, fighting off a sleep that was sure to bring nightmares. The sedatives had worn off only to be replaced by the effects of sleep deprivation.

“Medical trials."

"What." John mumbled, "Do they even run-"

"We will find that they do. It may not be publicly, but they do." He began to pace once more, profoundly lost in thought. John followed Sherlock's movement with his eyes. He marvelled at how the alpha he'd been living with seemed to have receded in the wake of a case. Sherlock was Sherlock again, in a way John hadn't witnessed in some time. Yet, there were still indications. Sherlock's behaviour in Morden had not been his usual antisocial extrovert, not quite. He was something else now. In top form, by the time dawn had come he'd all but taken the case over, had dispersed various officers and medical examiners to do his bidding. He'd directed everyone from the D.I. down.

In the wake of the horror and confusion before them, all had found solace in the big alpha that seemed to have all the answers.

"We're going to need the DNA results sooner than later on the victims. I'm certain we'll find evidence of a common parent for all of them."

"Do you mean you think one alpha sired them all?" The kettle clicked, causing John's eyes to snap open. He hadn't even realised they'd slid shut. He could not quite will himself to rise.

"Or one omega bore them-" Sherlock said.

"That sounds pretty unlikely, they seem too close together in age." Said John,"There's no way an omega could carry so many at once, or so often. It would be too taxing on the body. It's much more realistic to assume the alpha is the common parent." John let his gaze fall onto Sherlock.

There were more obvious, physical indications that the alpha was still present in Sherlock, was permanently in the mix. Still larger than he had been in the past, the extra mass he'd mysteriously gained was apparently here to stay. His voice was lower. That night as he'd alternately muttered to himself and boomed orders, John found himself getting goosebumps. He wondered how many others had felt the same way. An odd sliver of possessiveness had risen in him.

At the crime scene John's anger had instantly cooled, eclipsed by the horror before them. As the night wore on, he’d spiralled into a renewed attraction to this uber-version of Sherlock. He'd spent the night by Sherlock's side, doing his best to help, hopelessly turned on.

Now in the flat, by the light of day, John found himself bluntly staring at the crotch of Sherlock's trousers.

Another unmistakable sign of permanent change. Of utter _alpha-ness_ , lurking just below the surface.

John cleared his throat, forced his eyes away from the shape that was too large to disguise.

"I think the suppressants are wearing off." He muttered. He wasn't really expecting Sherlock to answer; he seemed completely absorbed by the work.

"Your scent is still still quite faint, they’re still working." Sherlock had stopped agian, looked out the window onto the world. "After the suppressants are fully out of your system we should bond immediately though." He added offhandedly. Once more he began to pace.

"What?" John felt himself become fully alert, questioning Sherlock's words as the stuff of half waking dreams.

"You’re just horny - a result of adrenalin and our working in close proximity. Suppressants will never completely eradicate that."

"Sherlock - Did you just say-"

"It's unhealthy to initiate the bonding process with blockers in your system. Surely you know this."

John blinked, narrowed his eyes.

"What's brought this on? And what if I'm not keen on it?"

Sherlock stopped, looked John in the eye. John felt an involuntary shudder overtake him.

"You're already mine, John, tonight should have shown you that, if nothing else."

Sherlock suddenly moved to where John sat. He knelt down, parted John's legs roughly and pushed his body between them. His eyes had begun to adopt a familiar cast.

"The most obvious course of action is to take it to the next step." Sherlock pressed his mouth against John's jawline. John squirmed in the chair under him, agitated, but excited by the sudden attention he'd been half dreaming of. Within moments, Sherlock had pulled them both to the floor, was peeling John's trousers off.

"I - ha- I - how do you figure that, you cocky bastard?" John gasped.

He moaned as Sherlock freed his enormous erection from his trousers and began to rut against him, sliding himself between John's thighs. The two didn't speak for several moments until with a low growl, Sherlock pushed himself inside of John. John moaned at the sensation of being filled by Sherlock. He gasped as Sherlock shifted positions, raising himself up slightly while simultaneously pinning John down. Sherlock's eyes were still sharp, despite the alpha gleam in them. It made for an intensity John hadn't expected.

"You come when I call you. You always have, you always will. You're only happy, only at your best when you're serving me."

The sentiment was arrogant enough to shake him. John was about to protest, his subdued anger beginning to rise, when Sherlock's hand clamped forcefully over his mouth.

" _Shut up._ " Sherlock's preemptive words were angry, more growl than human speech. “ _I’ve been waiting to take you all bloody night._ ”

John looked into the too-intense stare. The alpha and the genius, which of them had more ego? The combination suddenly frightened him. John attempted to sit up, but he was held firmly under the weight of Sherlock's body.

The expression in Sherlocks' eyes spiked with John's struggle. He pushed John back down, began to thrust in earnest.

"I can't do without you either, I thrive when you're here." Sherlock gasped. His breath was hot and demanding in John's ear. He began to quicken his pace, still holding John down, still keeping him silent. John continued to struggle, both pleasure and reluctance growing stronger by the moment.

"Tonight was perfect." Rumbled Sherlock, “you know it as well as I do.”

John's back began arching instinctively, his breathing erratic through his nostrils. His muffled objections only seemed to excite Sherlock further.

"You're mine." Sherlock growled, "Mine."

John moaned loudly behind Sherlock's hand. Something had been changing in him too, something had grown to desire whatever this was, Sherlock dominating, oppressing him. Holding him down and fucking him as he struggled. Something in him was responding beyond his control, despite logic, to the heavy body on top of him, to the thick alpha cock, to the knot that was already painfully stretching him. Something had steadily been crumbling despite his wishes. Something revelled as Sherlock groaned and shuddered, filled him with semen, again and again.

Something inside John climaxed at the baritone words.

"Mine.

Mine.

 _Mine!_ "


	15. WINDOW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The low moan came again, and John realised it was Sherlock, making the sounds of a man alternately chased and dragged through darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, birth scene ahead...  
> (Happy Saturday)

_Labour._ _He's in labour._

John's eyes snap open and he gasps as the contraction subsides.  
His right hand is still pressed tightly on his shoulder, the pain of the bite present but faint in the wake of new pain. The lights have not been turned on, the room is black. He doesn't know how long it's been.  
  
"Mmmmmmmh..."  
  
He's as quiet as he can be when the next contraction comes. He doesn't want Sherlock coming back, not now, and especially not after seeing what he's-  
  
"Hhmmmmmh!"  
  
Another contraction hits, then another. They're so close together now that he's sure it's time. John works frantically to get his left hand free. It's numb from being bound - even loosely - for however long he's been like this, unconscious and labouring, abandoned yet tied to the bloody bed. It isn't easy, particularly with the ache of his shoulder.  
  
His breathing is ragged and hard in these in-between moments.  
  
His hand releases just as the next contraction overtakes him. John exhales, moans softly. The familiar pressure of childbirth grips him, it's a promise that something is happening, something big is coming.  
  
Instinctively he moves his hands to his belly. Pleasure shoots through his body like an electric current. It's so surprising, he cries out in spite of himself. A hard contraction follows in direct response. John leans back on his elbows, pants and grunts. He strains, enormous belly rolling between his legs.  
  
Only seconds later his waters break audibly; with the sound of tight flesh rupturing, the amniotic sack inside him pops like an overfilled water balloon.  
  
John drops his head back and moans at the fluid that rushes out of him, soaking the sheets, that continues to come in small bursts from between his thighs.   
  
He can feel his cervix grudging open, widening, the baby making its way through. Painfully, but quickly - so quickly he thinks he may be able to -  
  
"Hhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnn!"  
  
John pants and huffs in the darkness. He fears he doesn't have much time.  
He rubs his belly, stimulating his body, trying to get it to perform faster. The intense pleasure mixes with the pain of the contractions that each stroke brings.   
  
“Hhhhhh!   
Hhhhhh!  
Hhhhhh!”  
  
Within minutes, he feels himself stretching, the baby filling his birth canal, pushing out against him in every direction as he shudders and groans again.   
  
He prays Sherlock will not hear him.   
  
John grips the sheets, spreads his legs wider. His body has momentum now, is working independently, birthing with or without his actively pushing.  
  
He pushes anyway, teeth gritted, sweat running into his eyes, soaking his hair. He digs his heels down and rocks his hips. His thighs tremble, his body begins to open.   
  
"Hrrrrr... hah... hah... oh fuck...ohhhhhh fuckfuckfuckfuck..."  
  
It feels different than the other times; there's pain and the impossible pressure, a familiar feeling of heaviness and ache, but there's something else too. He's full of desire, he's horny as hell, his body demands stimulation. He rubs his belly, strokes his cock. He undulates his hips, working the baby down, steadily building his way towards climax. He's widening, he can feel his small opening growing into a large, tight circle of flesh around the baby's head as it crowns.  
  
John cries out at full volume as the baby's head quite suddenly pops out of him. His flesh has stretched and parted abruptly, almost easily at the end. Within a breath's time, the baby twists forward, shoulders coming one after another, the whole of it spilling out between his legs in a orgasmic rush. John ejaculates and cries out again, he can't keep quiet between the pain and the pleasure, nor the desire to be fucked through all of it. The baby is huge.

Before he can pay it any attention, another baby is making his perineum bulge and strain to open again, as though his skin is made of dense rubber.  
  
His legs are still in the pulley system. They’re not elevated but he can only move within a limited range. He wants badly to reposition. He only needs one leg free to do so.  
  
John grasps at his ankle in the dark, breathes hard, fumbles and shakes. The binds are not complicated, the challenge lies in freeing himself in the face of giving birth. His legs splay open wildly, oddly.  
  
He moans again, the second baby presses heavily against his prostate as his body works to make it come out.  
  
His leg slips out of the binding and he quickly turns himself over, onto his hands and knees. His belly drags against the mattress beneath him, his hips instinctively move. He rocks back and forth, rubbing his stomach against the bed in pleasure, pain and desire resurfacing. He can feel himself opening again, already stretched from the first birth, faster this time.  
  
His motion completes his body's efforts, the baby's head again steadily crowning, then popping out suddenly. He feels it sticking out of him, twisting, the rest of it coming fast. John groans, lowers his pelvis, back arching, another intense orgasm gripping him. He pushes and comes hard, shouts out loudly in release as the baby drops out of him onto the bed. A last gush of fluid and afterbirth completes his relief.  
  
Trembling, he reaches for them in the dark.  
  
When they cry out for the first time, one, then the other, John finds he is sobbing too.  
  


+++  
  


 _Are you having a nightmare?_  
  
The question surfaced in the forefront of his mind, there to be asked. He'd been dreaming of the case, of Morden, of Sherlock.  
  
John half woke to the sound of moaning. A familiar feeling of fever and frantic desire gripped him. He was sweating like mad. He was having difficulty thinking.  
Confused, disoriented, aroused, John's mind ground against his body.  
  
The low moan came again, and John realised it was Sherlock, making the sounds of   
a man alternately chased and dragged through darkness. Sherlock moved restlessly, in a kind of slow motion thrashing. It was this that had half-woken John, pulled him up through his biology and dreams into quasi-consciousness.  
  
Concern engulfed John, helped him recall his original intention.  
  
 _Are you having a nightmare?_  
  
John struggled to voice the question, when Sherlock's movement and moaning stopped.   
  
It was quickly replaced by a low, primal noise that reverberated through both their bodies. Evocative of a fierce, canine growl, a gruff, bear-like bellow, it was a deep animal sound, devoid of humanity. It struck John silent and still with addle-brained fear.   
  
The warmth of Sherlock's body pressed against him in the dark suddenly felt threatening. John listened to the agitated beast beside him and knew he would be attacked should he surprise it. His heart pounded in fever and fright.  
  
Sherlock abruptly rose, his departure from the bed creating a cool breeze against John's skin. The airflow made John conscious of Sherlock's alpha scent; it was so great that he could not smell anything else.  
  
He watched stock-still and bleary eyed as Sherlock moved through the shadows of the room.  
  
Sherlock's body language was strange: like a sleepwalker, his gaze seemed to be fixed inwards. He held his head low and forward, shoulders hunched. His breath was heavy, his motion predatory. John shuddered, for it reminded him of the thing that had pounced on him in his Soho dream.  
  
Sherlock stood at the window. It sat open upon John's earlier insistence. Light from the outside world fell over Sherlock's face. He gazed out into the night, with the same shark-eyed look John had seen before. Sherlock braced himself, palms against the wall on either side, and with a clipped snort, thrust his head forward crudely.   
  
John had the hazy thought that Sherlock was not looking out the window. He was inhaling; not seeing, but smelling, taking the world in through his olfactory senses.   
  
John wanted desperately to speak, to try and break them both free from delirium.  
"Sherlock-" He was startled to hear his own voice. It came out of him as a desperate whisper, followed by the same strange, submissive whine he'd made when Sherlock had brought him out from the shower.

Sherlock pulled back inside, turned his head.   
  
His face was a characature of itself; a brutish mask rendered in beastly madness. He stared at John and bared his teeth.  
  
John's eyes dropped automatically. The fierce look in Sherlock's eyes was all dominating, terrifying. He tried to look back up, but it was impossible. He couldn't help it; he was physically incapable of looking Sherlock in the face.  
  
Instead he lay helpless in the dark, dizzy and frightened, feverish and amorous. The alpha scent filled his nostrils, inspiring euphoria and fear. He closed his eyes and waited for Sherlock to take him, one way or another.   
  
Time crawled.  
John opened his eyes.  
He was alone in the room.   
  
John pulled himself out of bed unsteadily. He'd been sleeping, though for how long he couldn't say. He shakily made his way to the open window.   
  
Large enough for a person to go through.  
  
John pushed his face to the outside. The fresh air revitalised him, his body cooling down, his thoughts slowly falling back into line.  
  
 _Are you having a nightmare?_  
  
"John."  
  
Sherlock's voice brought him back to the room. John turned around.  
  
Sherlock stood in the doorway, eyes shiny, extra bright, perceptive. His skin was slightly flushed, as it sometimes got when he'd made a breakthrough on a case.  
  
"You've been at that window a long time,"  He said. John looked uncertainly at Sherlock, then back at the open window. A rosy dawn threatened London with a sunny day.  
  
"Come, it's time to work." Sherlock said. He disappeared into the flat, leaving John in the growing light.


	16. In Pursuit of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sat alone in Bloomsbury Square, head in hands, wondering what the fuck had happened to his life.  
> It was no accident that he'd chosen the same bench he'd been brooding on years ago where Mike had spied him, and changed the course of events forever.
> 
> John knew half heartedly, that he was hoping for another change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Boxing Day, and thank you for reading.

He's kept the light off in fear of alerting Sherlock.

John holds the twin boys to himself greedily, fearful that any moment the door will open and the light will assault him, and then Sherlock will be back, bloody fangs and all, to take the gurgling infants away from him.

He swears he won't let it happen. He can see them in the dark, their wide eyes open, soft bodies moving slowly. They are large for newborns, and as far as he can tell, healthy.

They lie against him contentedly: warm and quiet for the moment, but he knows they will be hungry soon. He curses himself for being male, even if they will be more resilient as a result of being born to a parent who can't produce milk.

He, too, is hungry, exhausted, and very thirsty. He also feels a kind of relief now, a liberation, and most importantly, a new strength. His babies' scent, their touch, their presence fills him with an indescribable joy that has reinvigorated him. Something in him is ready. Something animal, he feels it; his omega.

As quickly as he can, he prepares. He stays on edge, alternately checking on the newborns and watching the door.

At last he is ready.

John takes his children and on his own volition, after what's felt like eternity, leaves the room.

+++

Confronting Sherlock about the night's activity was not going well at all.

"I know what I saw," John's voice was desperate, despite his efforts to remain composed.

Sherlock calmly looked back as though the conversation were perfectly normal.

"You don't. You were sleepwalking," he said.

"If anyone was sleepwalking it was you, and you bloody well know it!" John shouted. He suddenly felt angry that Sherlock should wish to gaslight him like this.

"In fact," he continued, "You were more than that - you were in some... some -altered alpha state-"

"Your pheromones affected me quite deeply last night," Sherlock admitted, "it seems you suffered another micro-heat. The likes of which you still seem quite addled by, incidentally."

"So it's my fault then? And also somehow my imagination?? What a load of bullocks! How would that even be possible? I'm still under the effect of the OHB."

"Your body's fighting it," Sherlock looked steadily at John, a hint of approval in his demeanor. "Getting in sync with mine. It's your mind that's struggling on the wrong side of things." Sherlock's gaze had shifted inwards, the words seemingly for his own benefit.

He stood, pulled on his coat in a businesslike manner.

"That will change eventually," he said.

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief.

"Sherlock. I don't know what you're doing, what you've done, but it's obviously out of control. We need to-"

"We need to solve this case, John. There are five children still out there, still alive, still depending on us. They need our help."

Sherlock stepped close to John, rested his hands on John's shoulders, brought their faces together. He looked solemnly at John.

"I love you," He rumbled, "you're mine."

Sherlock's too-shiny eyes were focused on him again. The look was familiar, one John knew too well from years in medicine and military life.

John squeezed his own eyes shut.

"Are you... Are you high right now?" He whispered. Sherlock's lips pressed against John's forehead, lingered there for more than a moment. He sighed deeply.

"They need our help." Sherlock repeated.

He pulled away.

"We all do as we must, even you. I go to Morden now, John. I expect to see you there after your shift."

+++

It was never a good thing to go to work agitated. He went early; he wanted more suppressants before starting. Something to take the edge of his anxiety wouldn't be bad either, but it was really the suppressants he needed.

John knew he couldn't allow himself to bond with Sherlock, not as things were, not in a million years. Yet he didn't trust himself fully, either. It could happen, he could feel it; the idea alone was potent; it was fluttering around inside him, making some part of him happy. His omega side. He'd never really considered it a separate thing, but lately he'd begun to question that.

When John arrived, he went directly to his office.

He couldn't get in.

John tried the door several times, becoming more frantic with each unsuccessful turn of the lock, each rattle of the knob. He managed to nick himself with the key somehow, snarling in mild pain as a bright red slash appeared across his knuckle.

He stormed down to see Blake.

"There's something wrong with my door!"

Blake slowly looked up from his page 3 girl and morning tea with a distinct lack of sympathy. His pale face was a lump of dough, kneaded and left half risen. John recalled an assertion Sherlock once made ages ago; that the man was an ex-boxer; would be difficult to rattle.

"Morning, Doctor."

"My - my key's not working," John said awkwardly.

"Aye, the locks been changed," Blake took a sip from his cup thoughtfully. John felt his heart rise to his throat.

"Why?" He managed to choke.

The old security guard shrugged with an impressive lack of commitment.

"I'm sure I don't know; not my business. But I am s'posed to tell you, Doctor Mason wants a word straight away."

+++

Not much later John rode the lift in solitary silence. His mind was racing; he needed to gain some control over the situation. Whatever Mason had to say to him, John would be ready. He'd respond rationally, gain forgiveness for taking the pharmaceuticals from the closet. He could rationalise it; he'd been in a hurry, he'd broken protocol, all that was true. But his intention had been to document things properly today. He'd make it right, promise never to do it again. In any case, it was unfair to single him out; nearly everyone he'd worked with had done the same at some point if they weren't outright day-to-day offenders. He'd done a lot of volunteer work for the hospital, they'd have to factor that in...

"He's ready for you now, Doctor Watson." Mason's secretary said.

As John opened the door, he fleetingly wondered how they'd managed to figure it out.

The sight of Nurse Ross, flushed with tears sent a bolt of rage through John.

The silly bitch was going to cause him no end of trouble.

"Oh! Doctor Watson!" she started, but a sharp look from Mason cut her off, and John realised with a start that she was not simply upset at being reprimanded, but devastated over whatever was happening. It was bigger than some stolen meds.

"Good morning John," Mason said civilly, "please sit down." He was proper man, with proper ways of doing things.

"Morning. What's this about then?" John's words were more aggressive than he'd intended.

Mason looked at John in solemn distaste. John's blunt behaviour did not sit well with his own public school sensibilities. They'd always been at odds that way. He cleared his throat and turned the file that sat on his desk towards John.

"This," he said, "this is regarding a patient of yours. One Arnold Wenthworth."

Mason's words were nearly drowned out by a new flood of tears from Nurse Ross.

+++

John sat alone in Bloomsbury Square, head in hands, wondering what the fuck had happened to his life. Phrases like "malpractice investigation", "substance abuse", and "license revocation" would not go away. They echoed in his mind, in Mason's posh, shaming voice no less. John's phone buzzed.

 

_At St Helier's, come at once._

Sherlock's text prodded John into further feelings of self pity.

It was no accident that he'd chosen the same bench he'd been brooding on years ago where Mike had spied him, and changed the course of events forever.

John knew half heartedly, that he was hoping for another change.

_I need your expertise. Not to mention your body. Intend to exhaust both._

Working a case, fucking each other's brains out, it had been John's fantasy before Sherlock's Fall. He could admit that to himself.

The glory of it had lasted a mere forty-eight hours. Now everything was crap.

He hadn't really been able to get any acknowledgment from Sherlock about the night's strange events. He was having more and more trouble confronting him at all, in fact. The past few days were living proof, they were both changing; he was becoming outright submissive to Sherlock, who seemed to be changing in ways John couldn't quite believe. Even in his agitation, he felt drawn towards Sherlock, towards the alpha that had simultaneously destroyed and taken over his life.

_Don't mind the hospital's suspending you. Doesn't matter._

John blinked angrily at his phone. Of course the bastard already knew. Sherlock would no doubt be delighted with the situation. Without this one semblance of independent existence in his life, John would be his and his alone. Sherlock could probably even have Mycroft pull a few strings to expedite things-

Mycroft.

The name pulled John back from the edge of his angry paranoia. John's dream came rushing back to him. Mycroft had called John, tried to warn him. John's own subconscious had been trying to remind him of the obvious.

Mycroft... John needed someone who didn't just know Sherlock, but cared for him, ideally gave a shit about the both of them. That made for a predictably short list of people.

John had been so wrapped up in what was happening to him that he'd sought to control the situation by himself. It hadn't occurred to him to ask for help.

He needed help.

This new thought surprised him in its simplicity and power.

He needed to get in touch with Mycroft.

The task was a daunting one. Mycroft had vanished after The Fall. John had looked for him back then, if for no other reason than for some kind of closure. Mycroft was gone though, down to any evidence that he'd ever existed. People insisted they didn't recall him, and what little documentation John could think to pursue was non-existent. The Diogenes Club seemed to have become a high end gay bar. It was as though John had completely imagined Sherlock's brother. John knew better though.

Mycroft hadn't returned along with Sherlock, but he still existed, was still an omniscient force, John was sure of it.

 

_This is a new beginning. Change is never easy, but it's here now. Embrace it._

 

John stared at the words. He rose. A plan was forming in his mind, and with it, a growing hope beginning to compete with everything else he was feeling. With determination, he strode across the park, in pursuit of change.


	17. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone... I know it's been ages since I've posted, and I apologise for that. Hopefully some of you are still reading.

_ Hello everyone... I know it's been ages since I've posted, and I apologise for that. Hopefully some of you are still reading.  _

John sat alone in the glow of his laptop. He had time, still he was a little nervous.

_ Some things have been happening recently - rather big things that must be kept confidential for the moment. I know many of you are extremely clever, and will probably have an idea of what I'm referring to. _

His desire for allies had only increased. John had always been a bit of a loner. Now, suddenly, he wanted the opposite. He needed it.

_ I need your help - _

He shook his head and deleted the line.

_ Sherlock and I need your help. This is not something we're putting out there lightly, it's quite serious, and essentially, a secret mission for anyone who accepts it. We know how intelligent and resourceful our fans are, and we know that we can trust you. The task is simple. We need you to distribute a message as widely as you can, in any way, without discussing or even noting what it's connected to or might mean. _

_ Seven simple letters. Via Internet, word of mouth, homemade signage, anything. Keep it secret, keep it safe, and together, make it public. _

_ Quite literally, we are asking you to spread the word. _

John rubbed his eyes. Sherlock would expect him back sooner or later. Sooner was fine with him, they'd done another marathon day. It only took a few more minutes before he’d finished and was ready to post.

_ Thank you, to anyone who's still out there, reading this. _

_ JW _

 

John slid into bed beside Sherlock.

Over the day he’d had been worn down again, externally at least. There was no way to escape Sherlock’s pull it seemed, not as long as John had any kind of physical proximity to him. 

There were actually quite a lot of people who cared for them both, only it had taken him ages to remember, because he didn't personally know any of them. His blog had been popular and Sherlock’s fame had grown with each case. Letters, artwork, videos, stories. People had sent all manner of expressions of love to them. Only John hadn't touched the blog after Sherlock had done the unthinkable and killed himself.

Now John had outlined a plan which he prayed some of those people were still around and game for. 

There were nearly six million cameras in London alone. An impossible amount of social media streams. Podcasts, blogs, even local tv broadcast channels. The fans wouldn't know what the word meant, but John hoped they would be intrigued by its mystery and flattered to be included in a secret scheme. If carried out properly, the message wouldn't stick around, it would be a bright blip, a collective shout, one that anyone with a bird’s eye view of the world would hear, but someone focused on solving a local murder case might not. He'd found source code for a bot that was easy enough for him to modify; he hoped it would help build momentum. John thought at most he'd have 48 hours before Sherlock would catch it,  just long enough for his request to circulate amongst the readers. If he could get it past Sherlock at all.

John's thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock suddenly turning over and wrapping his long limbs around him possessively. John trembled, the familiar feeling of fever and desire that was becoming instant whenever Sherlock was present. A micro heat -that's what Sherlock claimed it was- a sensation of illness, intoxication, and utter lack of resistance to Sherlock's advances. 

“Mine,” the low voice reverberated in the dark, in John's ear. “Mine,” the sound thrummed through Sherlock's rib cage and into John's own body. John inhaled sharply.

He would think better in the morning, in the light of day, when Sherlock was not on top of him, inside him, holding him down, was not drowning him in animal passion. 

“Say it,” rumbled the impossible voice, and John found he had not yet exhaled. Sherlock's mouth was under his jaw, then along his neck and shoulder, sucking the place he might bite at any moment. His thick cock was moving, sliding in and out of John's body. His hands held John's wrists. The room spun around them.

“Yours,” John breathed, feeling weaker than he had yet been.

The Alpha laughed triumphantly, and took John in the darkness.

 

+++

 

He moves through the halls cautiously. Outside of his hospital-like room, it’s a grand old country estate; a typical home for the upper class to hide themselves away in. He isn’t terribly surprised; he has vague memories of being brought in and out through these shadowy corridors. He is so thirsty.

John walks carefully, he knows his body is injured and weak, despite the adrenalin rush that propels him forward. One of the babies occasionally shifts in his arms, but the other is quiet and a little too still, prompting John to stop every few minutes to check on his son. He doesn’t quite know what he will do if he runs into Sherlock. He doesn’t like to think about what he saw; Sherlock’s body language, his eyes (of course), and most disturbing, his mouth. Red, angry, sharp. Full of teeth John is sure he didn't imagine.

The image has just managed to creep into his mind’s eye when he freezes. There is a figure at the end of the hallway. John’s heart pounds in his ears and he doesn’t breathe for far too long. He stares at the man and the man stares back, just as stock still.

“Mycroft,” he rasps.

 

+++

 

Have you found it yet?” Sherlock's deep voice abruptly pulled John from his thoughts.

He'd gone through the records at St Helier's twice, not quite knowing what he was looking for. John had spent the day avoiding confrontation. Instead he worked; did his best to appear focused on the task at hand, even as his mind raced over his secret plan.

“What? I - I don't even know what “it” is!”

Sherlock gave him an odd, almost baiting look.

“You'll know it when you see it.” He stood then, crossed the room and closed the door to the tiny office they been given. John looked up wearily.

“Sherlock, I ...thought we were working.”

“This is a part of it,” Sherlock rumbled, “come here.”

John looked at him in disbelief.

“No,” he said. The words did not sound as sure as he's intended.

“Come here,” Sherlock said again.

“You think you can just order me around, you arrogant-”

“Of course I can; you're  _ mine _ .” He looked at John, his expression speaking volumes. 

“Entirely now,” he added, and John flew at him in a sudden rage. 

 

Not long after, John watched Sherlock as he carved fork and knife into a thick sirloin.

“Ah,” Sherlock sighed approvingly at the rivulet of blood that sprung from the gash he'd made.

“It's alright this time, is it?” John muttered in cranky sarcasm. 

“Hm. Now it's alright.” Something in the way Sherlock sliced through the flesh on his plate was unspeakably brutal. His table manners were impeccable; but there was a clear savagery in his intent. 

“Ought to be. You only sent it back twice,” John spat. 

“They insisted on twice bringing it overcooked, despite my specifications,” Sherlock said. He took a wet, red bite, in restrained, civilised pleasure. John shuddered. 

A pattern had begun to emerge. At the moment, Sherlock was a strange but arguably balanced being; the person who sat before him was both brutal alpha and cold genius. Charismatic, brilliant, manipulative. The person who had thus far lead the investigation heroically, dealt with the press masterfully, and less than an hour ago, coerced John into sex. John knew though, that the balance would fall out of whack; the alpha would claw his way to dominate, and Sherlock would disappear, into himself and into the night. Or the genius would cage the former, and Sherlock would be left with that other personality; shaky from struggle, full of denial, obsessed solely with solving the case.

“Bloody Jekyll and Hyde,” John grumbled under his breath.

“Eat your food,” Sherlock growled. He mostly seemed to speak in imperatives these days.

“You're so different now,” John said, “you never liked food, you've never-”

“ _ You've _ never eaten less than I,” countered Sherlock, “eat, you need to build up your strength.”

John looked across the restaurant, rather than acknowledge Sherlock, or his own slab of undercooked, red meat. A little group of fans had gathered. These were not his blog followers (although he supposed there was some overlap), but what he considered “new” fans; the current case had blown up, gone national, and was quite the sensation. Sherlock had begun to attract a whole new class of admirers and gawkers. Now John watched the fans watch Sherlock and him. 

_ Mostly Sherlock, _ he thought. The alpha.

“For what?” John sighed.

“To ensure your first full heat be as successful as possible, of course,” Sherlock said, “Protein and iron are especially good for that.”

John finally shifted his gaze back to Sherlock. 

“You want children now, do you,” he said.

“Procreation is an absolutely necessary step in the bonding process,” said Sherlock, “in fact, it is the sole victory condition as far as biology’s concerned.”

“And what if I'm not interested in children,” John said snidely.

“You are. In any case, it isn't your choice-” Sherlock' sentiment was interrupted by John standing abruptly, and storming off. 

“Hurry back, before it gets cold,” Sherlock rumbled.

 

In the toilet, John looked at the green tablets in his palm. They were the last of his suppressants, which he'd been secretly taking in lower doses to avoid confrontation with Sherlock. His fury at Sherlock’s words made him resolve to raise his dosage again, to resist the man who was manipulating him tenfold level every day.

He was still staring at them when the door opened. John closed his fist and turned.

“John,” Sherlock said stepping into his space, “Don’t be angry.”

“And why not? You think you can just tell me what to do like this, you wanker?” John cried. He had taken half a step back, already found himself pushed up against the sink.

“For one thing, because what you're actually feeling is fear,” said Sherlock calmly, “which you must recognise as such, should you wish to stop suffering.”

“Fear. Right. If you think I'm afraid of you, Sherlock-”

“Not of me, of yourself,” Sherlock said. His hands had made their way to John’s shoulders, ran along his upper arms as if to soothe, or perhaps restrain.

“You're frightened of embracing your omega,” he continued, “of following that part of yourself and allowing it to flourish to its fullest.” Sherlock continued to run his hands over John as he spoke. His deep alpha scent was predictably driving John crazy, throwing him into a minor frenzy.

“No. I don't want- stop it,” John croaked.

“It isn't going to be easy,” Sherlock said. He pulled back, and John found himself trembling;  muscles twitching uncontrollably. 

“It isn't your choice, though, because it's simply what you are, what I am.” Sherlock ran his hands down from John’s shoulders to his wrists. John's fists were both clenched, but it was the right hand Sherlock guided over the basin.

“Drop it,” he said, and John felt the trembling in his body increase. Sherlock moved closer, his head tilted up slightly, placing his jawline by John's nose. John slid his eyes shut in desperate resistance, his right fist clenched harder than before. Sherlock was pressed against him, nuzzling John as he spoke. He felt Sherlock's breath on him, then in his ear as he said it again, softly.

“Drop it.”

They stood there for an eternity, breathing together, Sherlock applying just the slightest bit of pressure to John's wrist, his other arm wrapped around John. John's heart pounded in his ears. The scent of alpha was all he could taste. 

“Drop it.”

The sound of his heartbeat was overshadowed by the tinny sound of the tablets hitting the sink before disappearing down the drain. John gasped at his own defeat, at his crumbling will which was contradictory to his efforts. His body was almost limp, Sherlock practically holding him up.

“Good,” he whispered to John, “very good.”

“Let go!” John moaned.

“It will be easier to accept once I've bred you,” Sherlock soothed, “once I've already put them in you, you'll be happy, you’ll find you want -”

His words were cut off by the door opening again. Sherlock released John and whipped around with an audible growl. Three young omega girls stood there: shy and excited, oblivious to the scene they'd walked in on. Fans.

“What,” Sherlock growled.

“Um… Hi…” One of them said timidly, ”Um, we just really love you and were wondering if we could get a photo with you…”

John was sure this would result in gruff rejection, but to his surprise, Sherlock said,

“Of course. Come here.”

John stared in amazement as the three girls crowded into Sherlock’s arms, pulling out their phones in giddy delight. He slipped past the four of them, made a beeline for the door. Sherlock seemed unperturbed; he continued talking, hugging the omegas towards himself, his eyes following John as John went out the door. 

“Tell me your name,” John heard; the alpha voice low and commanding, demanding obedience even as John fled from it.

 

The rain had come down hard earlier, and London’s night time streets glistened with water and light. He charged through them, half in fury, half in horror at all that had transpired in the restaurant. 

Sherlock had too much control over him. That fact, the thought itself, was nothing new, had been true as long as they'd known each other. Only it was evolving - becoming ever more impactful, despite John's continued belief that things couldn't get any worse. That they'd smooth out. 

John turned the past few months over in his mind again and again. It wasn't enough, apparently, that Sherlock was drugging John(and himself), controlling him emotionally, professionally, sexually. Now he was keen on making the most irreversible life choice, tying John to him forever. The thought of Sherlock coercing him into having children crystallized into a sudden nausea, and John found himself vomiting up his steak in the street. 

It had been happening quite a lot in the last week; John thought pitifully of how much he missed his access to the hospital’s arsenal of meds.

His inability to sleep properly, keep food down, concentrate, said it all. Besides combating whatever it was Sherlock had done to him, he was experiencing withdrawal. It was obvious - he supposed he could admit it to himself - he'd gone a bit farther with things than he'd intended. John wondered if after all the junk was out of his system it would be easier to stand up to Sherlock.

He looked up shakily and gave a start; stared at the letters before him. There, on white paper and black marker, was the name stuck over the 17 bus route. 

He might have missed it (for it looked like a tag), but that Sherlock's brother was very much on his mind.

A half a block down, he soon spotted another sticker, on the front of a fish and chip shop, and then another, stuck to the neighbourhood Tesco's. John followed the trail, amazed at its existence. It hadn't been long since he'd posted his plea, yet here it was, already manifested. 

The alleyway held the most impressive one though. A fully painted piece, the letters which took up two metres of wall were blatant street art and secret signal both.

The feeling of having no control over his own life was suddenly accented by the same pang of hope he'd felt in the park. Only now it was something real, something that had been put into action. John whispered a silent thanks to whoever had given him this, to the followers of his blog, the dedication and speed of Sherlock’s fans, to the feeling that he wasn't completely alone. It began to rain again, and he laughed. 

A bus pulled up, and almost cheerfully, he got on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a YEAR (slightly more, let's be honest)... I kind of can't believe it. Well, ok I can...  
> But so anyway, as JW writes in the beginning of this chapter,   
> Thank you, to anyone who's still out there, reading this.
> 
> It may please you to know I have finished writing this story.  
> So, I will be posting once a week until... Until We're Done... :P
> 
> Happy 2017  
> -ok


	18. #mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is it,” Mycroft asked in his sour tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! is it Sunday already?   
> I guess if you're on PST it's technically still the weekend -_-

_ Author’s note: _

_ The following are excerpts from a page originally hosted on knowyourmeme.com. Due to the nature of the content and its assured removal, it has been edited and hosted here, temporarily. This page will auto refresh and expire in five minutes. A new encrypted password will be required. _

 

**About**   
#mycroft (a.k.a ‘Mycroft’) is a hashtag that popped up for a short time circa September XX, 20xx. The hashtag was attached to various forms of social media posts, videos, street art, stickers, and even seen on clothing. It originated in, but was not exclusive to London.

 

‘#mycroft’ disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared. Due to the rapid and thorough nature of its scrubbing from public view (continued to this day), the tag is generally thought to be connected to a government conspiracy. 

 

Most notable is the mysterious meaning of the tag, which has never been fully agreed upon. 

 

The mystery around the meaning of #mycroft springs from the fact that that the tag was used as/accompanied by, a flow of seemingly unrelated content. Photos of all manner of people, places, things, as well as tweets, comments, and blog entries covering a wide range of topic were tagged with ‘#mycroft”. Automation is suspect for much, though not all of it. No claims for #mycroft bots have been made thus far.

 

Although the tag originated in London, it was emitted worldwide over a period of 36 hours before disappearing again.

 

The subject has been difficult to investigate; any mention or evidence of the tag was, and is still to this day, removed, and those suspected for using the tag are oddly silent, either by their own accord or coercion.

 

**Theories**

There are several theories about the cause and meaning of #mycroft. Some include:

 

  * The St Helier's Conspiracy 
  * A global mass hysteria amongst an undefined group 
  * Another name for Slenderman



 

**The St Helier's Conspiracy**

The most popular theory is that ‘Mycroft’ is the code name of a government eugenics programme. The infamous  St Heilier’s Case   which was being conducted at the time and centred around hidden medical trials, is often connected to the hashtag.

 

This theory came about because of the timing of the tag and the breakthrough of the case which was 

 

404 - Site Not Found

 

+++

 

“What is it,” Mycroft asked in his sour tone. It had been a long time since John had seen him. He’d lost weight, was thin now, (as thin as Sherlock used to be) and, it seemed, aging slowly, the way that the wealthy do. Although John had barely got to look. At Mycroft’s insistence, the two of them stood, not facing each other, but rather, a painting.

“Your brother, he's in trouble, he’s…”

John faltered, he didn't actually have this part planned, had only thought as far as to make contact. He'd been sure the emergency would be self evident. 

He looked at the image before them; a powerful man that was not so different from Mycroft himself. The National Portrait Gallery was especially quiet, and John could not help but wonder if Mycroft had something to do with it. 

“I asked you to watch him years ago,” said Mycroft snidely, “Surely you don't think I want your report  _ now _ , Doctor,” John blinked in frustration and disbelief.

“Sherlock's out of control,” he said, “really gone too far… He's… not well!”

“Is that so?” Mycroft sounded bored as he studied the work  before them.

“He's been… Self experimenting. To an extreme. It's affected his mind, his body, and-”

“And you Doctor, how's your health?”

Mycroft interjected. He spoke in a condescending tone, the same one John had been given by his co-workers. The tone was all too familiar. Mycroft believed John was a junkie.

“Me? I'm fucked,” John said, and Mycroft laughed, a rare look of surprise lighting his inscrutable features.

“My dear doctor,  _ that _ -”

“Listen to me!” John nearly shouted, “things are out of control!” He'd turned away from the wall and towards Sherlock’s brother, but Mycroft hadn't moved.

“They don't appear so, no more than usual, anyway,” sighed Mycroft. John looked at him in exhausted realisation. Mycroft was still spying on them, had probably never stopped.

John inhaled with forced patience, tried again.

“I can't - I -we’re both stuck in a downward spiral I can't get us out of,” he said, “When was the last time you saw Sherlock, personally? Not through a camera, not from a report someone else wrote… When was the last time you came face to face with him, and  _ talked _ , Mycr-”

“Enough.”

Mycroft had suddenly become intensely stern, now he turned towards John for the first time. 

“About that. My name. You aren't to use it, even  _ say _ it, ever again,” he said in cool anger.

John blinked in confusion.

“This little stunt of yours was not amusing, exposing it to the public. If you try and repeat such a thing, even privately, I promise you, your ‘downward spiral’ will conclude very quickly.”

John stared at him. Mycroft’s expression was one of simple, violent truth. Mycroft turned back to his painted reflection.

“Everything is under control. Once my brother finishes this case, all loose ends will be tied. You needn't worry, only stay where you are. You're useful there. If you choose to leave, you will never work as a doctor again. There is no reason to contact me. Is there anything I've just said that you don't understand?”

Mycroft was looking again at John, with calm, civilised menace as he spoke. It occurred to John that Mycroft, although a heavy suppressant user, was an alpha, a real one. Perhaps Sherlock's exaggerated, aggressive behaviour wasn't so far out there, maybe this was the subtler, natural version of what ran in their family, what John had been living with in artificially enhanced spades-

“Doctor?” Mycroft pressed (too) politely.

“Listen- listen to me- Go see him,” John insisted, “he's not ok. Go see for yourself…” Beside him, in front of him, the devil he’d summoned smiled. 

 

+++

 

“See him, go see him,” John hears himself mumbling.

The illusion has dissolved, the memory washed away by the present. Mycroft fades away and John is staring at his own haggard face in a mirror. For a moment he is crushed by disappointment, consumed by despair, but then the smell hits him.

 

Food.

 

There's food nearby. Which also means there’s water. 

His body takes over, whatever emotions he’s feeling is shoved aside in lieu of survival.

He follows the scent like a hungry animal, sniffing until he finds the staircase, and descends.

 

The kitchen is easy to find. It's big, enough to service the house. It is quiet and undisturbed save for one small table. The table is no less than a miracle, for on it sits a bowl of soup, a glass of water.

John can't control himself, he moves faster than he would have guessed himself capable, and drinks. A moment later he is eating, the babies sheltered between himself and the table. He doesn't remember sitting or starting to eat. He's simply looking at the food one minute, consuming it the next. He knows he should slow down, take his time with the salty broth, the best thing he's ever eaten, it seems. He knows this sudden offering of food and rest is telling his body to stop, making him lightheaded. He knows he needs to sip slowly yet- 

“John!”

The sound of a woman gasping in surprise makes John's eyes snap open. He jumps in terror, disrupting both chair and table, tumbling to the floor himself. He is weak though, and the woman catches him easily, she is trying to subdue him. He doesn't remember sleeping, only waking to back into this nightmare, now with a stranger, though she knows his name and repeats it as he struggles against her.

“John, it's okay, stop, John please, I want to help you, you've got to calm dow-”

Her words are cut off as he manages to connect his elbow with her nose. A moment later he is crawling away from her, then pulling himself to his feet, then turning, pushing himself back on top of her, his hands wrapped around her throat. They struggle on the floor, John weak but pinning her under his weight.

“Where are they,” he gasps. He won't lose them, not again, not to her.

She pushes back against him, firmly, gently, a look pleading in her eyes. He has the upper hand, but no real strength. Still there's no denying, he's got her at the moment.

“Just here,” she gasps,”safe, just here. I'll show you, please, John-”

He  _ does _ know her. For a split second, John relaxes his grip in surprised recognition. Natalie. 

“What are you doing here?”

He says in utter befuddlement, then shakes the illusion away. 

No… It's not. It isn't Natalie. It's Nice Nurse. His hands clench again then, in renewed anger, and she gasps under him.

“John- I-”

“Shut up!” He seethes. He will kill her, he will fucking -

The sound of a baby  -his baby- disrupts his murderous intent. 

John sits up, spins round.

A young omega woman stands there, holding his child. She is nursing him, her breasts and belly swollen. She looks at John with bright eyes but says nothing. John is about to speak when a second omega appears, nursing the other baby. She is further along in her pregnancy, and the thing that John might have missed with the first girl is blatant in the second. 

They both smell of Sherlock.

“Please let us help you,” whispers Nice Nurse.


	19. experiments and surrogates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hold still, please. You're shaking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I almost forgot to post last Sunday... Saturday is the new posting day! Yay!

_ Is this about me? Am I the omega in this story? _

“Why are you here?”

John looked up from the endless task of sifting through papers. Sherlock towered over him, eyes red rimmed, sharp;  _ more Genius than Alpha…  _

“I'm - 

_ Trying to figure out why the fuck Mycroft wants you to finish this case,  _ John thought.

“-looking for answers,” he said instead.

“Perhaps you're not answering the right questions,” Sherlock said.

“What?” John looked at Sherlock to confirm the slip, but Sherlock only nodded. “You mean ask -” he ventured,

“I mean answer,” said Sherlock.

_ Am I awake?  _ The familiar feeling of mild delirium made John feel he ought to question everything. Sherlock's presence made it difficult to concentrate. The room felt warm. Another micro-heat must be upon him, thanks to Sherlock's bloody pheromones.

Sherlock crossed the room to the table he'd set up, and turned a microscope on. Soon he was looking at slides and making notes. 

John watched for a few minutes. It was odd how reminiscent of the early days this was. Sherlock had practically built an alternate version of his “lab” at Baker Street here. John supposed Sherlock was more a creature of habit than he'd ever admit; even while turning himself into a feral alpha, Sherlock clearly  _ needed _ to run experiments -

John blinked, mid epiphany.

“You-” he said, “-You're not investigating - to solve this crime, are you? You're experimenting; pulling the data from whatever this runaway experiment was. You're just... playing with it!”

“You've always been clever, I did always like that about you,” mumbled Sherlock. He did not bother to look up. “The research is brilliant, but incomplete. I intend to finish  - well, fix, really - what was started here.”

“And that is?”

“Come, you can't stop being clever now. You've been pouring through notes as much and as carefully as I have,”

“I don't bloody know. As far as I can tell it was all about keeping one poor omega perpetually knocked up-”

“To what end? Think,”

“I don't know, I don't care,”

“Of course you do. What do the variables we found in each child’s DNA suggest?”

_ What kind of experiments would a feral alpha run, anyway? _

“Sherlock -” John said softly,

“Where are they?”

“Who?” Sherlock muttered. 

“You said there were five more children out there. Alive. Where -”

“Living the most mundane of lives, no doubt.” Sherlock snorted impatiently.

“So you do know where they are.”

“Naturally. I figured it out almost immediately-”

“But! But… Why don't we rescue them… Why don't we reveal where they are - that's what the whole bloody country is on the edge of their seats waiting to hear!”

“It can wait,” Said Sherlock. He was oddly calm, the alpha in him tucked safely away somewhere. Researching, buried in his work - it was so blatant now that John could see it. It was the one thing that gaoled the beast effectively.

Even so, his scent was there, messing everything up. John could feel his body getting more aroused by the minute; just being in the same room he'd become half hard and very wet. Despite everything, fantasies of Sherlock taking him flashed through his mind’s eye. He felt feverish. The micro-heat was stronger than usual this time. John stood, headed for the door.

“Wait,” Sherlock commanded.

“I need some air,” John muttered, and stumbled into the night.

 

+++

 

“Who are they?” John asks. He can't take his eyes off the two women who sit across from him, diligently nursing his children, still smiling. 

There's something similar about them, although he can't say what, exactly. They're both young, but it's hard for him to tell how old; somewhere in their mid to late twenties, he supposes. The first omega is of South Asian descent, with inky black hair that falls into a stylish bob. The second is a pale girl with mousy hair and freckled skin. They're wearing garments that roughly match; loose dresses which look comfortable and practical. But nothing so overtly same that one would conjure the term  _ cult _ . The second girl even has leggings on. Neither is especially beautiful, neither looks special, not athletic, not unfit. Perhaps it's that they both seem quite average, and yet-

John winces at the sensation of peroxide pouring into his open flesh. 

“Hold still,” Nice Nurse, (whose name it turns out, is Mary,) says. She repositions herself, continues to clean the wound. 

“They're surrogates. They’ll take good care of your babies, who by all appearances, are healthy. You on the other hand… this is deep, too deep… he's never bitten like this before, has he?”

“Who were they before?” Her face is close to his, yet he presses past her, watches the surrogates with fixed attention. Mary had examined the two infants carefully, before convincing John to let the young women nurse them. He is still wary, agitated, ready to lunge forward should they try anything. The omegas, by contrast, are calm, unfazed. Sometimes, they seem to be in an almost meditative state. John tries to imagine Sherlock with them. He can't.

“I don't know,” Nice Nurse sighs, “The anaesthetic should be in effect now. I'm going to start. Deep breath.”

John inhales. The sensation of the needle entering his flesh is far away enough that he can ignore it, just.

“Why don't they speak?” He asks.

“Good, yes, hold still, like that. Head level. I don't know. A vow of silence, would be my guess. None of them have ever spoken to me. Although sometimes they will write.”

“There are more?”

“Hold still, please. You're shaking.”

“Can't help it,”

“I know, sweetie, but try, please. I must suture this properly… we don't want it to tear open…”

John makes his body relax, forces the trembling out of his being. She nods in approval, stitches in silence for a few minutes.

“There are more,” she says softly.

“How many?”

“I don't know. I do know they wish to be here,”

Nice Nurse says. Her voice is even, but she is looking at him intensely. John looks back at her. Her back is to the surrogates, they can't see the desperation in her eyes. The sudden realisation that he is not the only prisoner here brings on a new wave of uncontrolled trembling. 

“He's punctured the antetupial gland,” Mary inhales, “that's one reason you're getting the shakes,” she smiles weakly at him. John locks eyes with her. She's keeping information back, or lying; a punctured antetupial normally leads to system shock, he should be in a coma. It means Sherlock got a mouth full of toxins; the same gland which generates the hormones that drive alphas and omegas mad for each other is deadly when pierced. But she's not saying any of this. She knows more about the surrogates, too, he's sure. John wonders who the censorship is for.

Mary stands. She crosses the kitchen, brings a glass and pitcher of water back to him. He notices she has a slight limp when she walks.

“You need more fluids,” she says, “and rest. After you deliver the others, we can figure everything else from there.”

“The others?” John asks stupidly. Mary looks at him I surprise, then with sympathy.

“Oh honey, you're not done,” she says, “not nearly.”

He slides his hand to his stomach at her words. He is far from thin, of course, but he didn't think about it: was only bent on surviving. Had he thought about it, he'd have assumed it was only postpartum weight. As if to mock this very thought, his belly moves under his hand, the fluttering motion of more life inside him. Of course, he thinks, he was - is- much too swollen for it only be two-

“You ought to let me examine you,” Mary says,

“Remember, I'm an OB-Omega specialist. He brought he here for that,” she emphasises the last part; another veiled suggestion of kidnapping. John hesitates then nods slowly. Perhaps they are allies. 

“Let's move into a more comfortable space, all of us,” she says.

The servants’ room is attached to the kitchen and tiny. Despite its size, someone has managed to fit in two single beds. A little washroom accompanies it. 

“Please give us a few minutes of privacy,” Mary crosses the room, pats one of the beds as she speaks to the surrogates. John is a little perplexed at how accommodating they are, placing the bundled infants on the bed next to him then leaving; but he's relieved at the opportunity to speak to Mary without their presence. Mary gestures towards the bed again.

“Lie down, let's have a look,” she says. 


	20. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're shaking again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay... I was marching yesterday...

The streets were practically empty of course.

It was late, and even the high road was silent as he moved along it. The cool air helped clear his head a little, the blurred colours of city lights slowly coming into focus.

John weighed the reality of how trapped he actually was. There was no question that Mycroft could destroy his career with little effort. He had no doubt Sherlock could and would follow him, should he move out of Baker Street, would continue to demand his time, his obedience, his body. But that didn't mean he had to fold completely. He could resist, fight.

The thought was punctuated by a sudden, light, breeze, which refreshed him, sharpening his thoughts. John shivered. If only he could think around Sherlock… but Sherlock thoroughly scrambled John, mind, body, and soul, whenever he was present.

_Why are you here?_

Sherlock hadn't entirely made sense. Still, it was a good question. Why had he stuck around so long? In these lucid moments, why shouldn't he run, even if he thought Sherlock would follow?

He cut through an underpass, fully expecting to continue in solitude. Instead, he was mildly surprised to see four young men -a gang of ratty looking alphas - walking towards him. One of them made a rude kissing noise at John.

He passed them, still lost in his thoughts, until another of them caught his wrist.

“Oi,” he snapped, whipping his hand away. He turned, instinctively knowing what to expect. The blow to his face hurt, but he was already countering, punching the boy hard in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.

It wasn't as though he hadn't been mugged before, nor served in the military, nor had many a brawl with the population of London’s underbelly thanks to his times with Sherlock. John Watson knew how to fight, and how to win, in fact. But he was ill, from his own self-medicating practices, from Sherlock's experiments, from sleep deprivation and stress.

So it was not surprising that John managed to take down three out of four much younger men, but fell once the fourth hit him with something he couldn't see, perhaps a brick. It didn't really matter. What mattered was that he came to when he did.

He knew what was happening. Before he could make out any words, John recognised the bawdy, lewd sounds of young men encouraging each other through a gang rape. Their voices swirled around him, a jumbled chorus of violence and growing chaos.

_Is this about me?_

“‘Takejem!”

John moaned, tried to push his assailant off, to crawl away, anything. His head was impossibly hazy, as though he were being smothered. The boy above him laughed and said something to his mates, hit John in the face hard.

John continued to tear blindly at the one pinning him down. He still couldn't make any words out, was having trouble with his vision. Liquid trickled into his eyes, was it blood? Sweat? With a start he realised he was hot, burning up.

“‘Oldstilll yiyliitkr tart!”

Am I the omega in this story?

“I said hold still you little tart-” the words resolved momentarily before a sound interrupted them. A fully animal noise, the sound blooming as it echoed off the underpass walls.

“ _Mine_.”

A single word, just discernible under the vibration of a jaguar’s growl. The others shouting, then screaming.

A person shouldn't sound like that, John thought, a person making that noise can't be-

“ _Mine_.”

Sherlock? Sherlock. John hazily realised he was having trouble rising to consciousness because he was again feverish with hormonal reaction. Sherlock was there, defending John, simultaneously rendering him helpless, sick, and most disturbingly, amorous.

John sat up, reluctant desire shooting through him. Delirious, he watched the figure he'd seen come and go in his bedroom as it held John's assailant down and tore at the boy’s face.

The others had run, of course they had. Sherlock’s body language was truly animal, it triggered a deep seated, primal fear in John’s brain. Sherlock had moved to the boy’s neck. Quite suddenly, he tossed his head. With the gesture came a distinctly audible, snapping sound.

The boy shuddered, spasmed, then lay still, his torn cheeks dark and wet.

John stared, dizzy at the nightmare before him. Someone was screaming.

Sherlock - The Alpha - was looking at him with the dead black eyes of a shark, coming towards him.

“ _Mine_.”

The word was there, fixed in his delirious brain, unspoken, transmitted, understood.

“ _Mine_.”

The Alpha was on John now, holding him down, tearing his clothes off, taking him despite his terror and resistance - as surely as the boy had intended to - and John realised the screaming he'd been hearing was his own.

_“Mine!”_

 

He woke with a start.

 

Sunlight and the familiarity of home filled the room at Baker Street. It was early afternoon; the sounds from the window told him that life outside was well underway. John was alone in bed, buried under a duvet. His heart pounded, the remnants of a terrifying, fitful sleep lingering.

His body ached; everywhere, every way. The place reeked of sex, of himself and Sherlock. A strange collection of images from what felt like ages gone past played through his head. He didn't want to directly think about the burning sensation or the sticky remnants between his thighs.

John lay quietly, carefully turned the images over in his mind, trying to untangle memory from nightmare. A sick feeling so powerful he had to hold it at bay threatened to engulf him. He'd been in heat. A full, real heat… And Sherlock had-

John's phone buzzed.

He didn't care to read the messages. John ignored the vibrating device, instead he slowly pulled himself up, and staggered to the shower.

He felt odd. Sore and spent, but something else as well. It reminded him of the first time a bomb had detonated near him. He'd come away, mostly unscathed, undeniably changed. He was terribly thirsty.

Under the steamy water, it started as a faint tremor in his left hand. The vibration crawled up his arm, took root in his shoulder, then his torso, spreading, growing, until his whole body was shaking violently. Caught in his own personal storm, John dropped his head and sobbed.

 

+++

 

“You're shaking again.” Her fingers are inside him, her touch professional, clinical in nature. John can't help shuddering as she explores though. He’s unsure if it's out of pain and fear or instinctive desire, or both.

“Sorry,” he says. His body is a mess, on sensation overload. Exhausted, He feels confused more than anything else. He feels he's on the edge of hallucinating.

“Do you know, there are cameras all over this estate,” Mary says casually. “Microphones too. Mr. Holmes is very thorough.”

“How long have you been here?” John asks.

“Three years.” she says flatly.

“How long have I?”

“I don’t know,”

She seems to end the thought there, then adds,

“but I'd guess almost double that, maybe five.”

 _Five years, five years!_ Can it be true? John can't fathom it. _And for three of them -_

“You helped him,” he says.

“I'm sorry,” Mary answers.

“I have children too,” she adds sadly. John stares at her in disbelief.

“Not with-”

“No! I've never been anything to him other than a medical practitioner - I mean out there. I have a family. I want to keep them safe,”

Is it sincere, this last sentiment, is she playing for the cameras, the microphones, for him? John feels himself trembling again, his fear, paranoia, anger, disbelief getting the better of him.

“Do you know where we are?” He says, attempting to regain control.

“Scotland, I believe in Angus… The Glens...”

“Are you sure? How do you know?” John demands.

I'm sure about the country, I came here on my own volition. Only I didn't tell anyone.”

“What?”

Mary inhales as though to steady herself against her words.

“Let's just say this wasn't the job I thought I was coming to do. Nor the original location, for that matter.” She drops her gaze from him, absorbed in her own thoughts. Mary removes the latex gloves she’s wearing and sighs.

“Right, you can sit up now. There’s at least one more amniotic sack, I expect it won’t be very long until it breaks,” Her eyes are glassy with tears.

John wonders if she's tried to escape, how many times. Running from Sherlock is an impossible task, he thinks, her desperation is far too familiar.

“You know, he's very clever.” Mary says.

“I know,” John answers sadly.

 

+++

 

“I know it isn't fair to ask you for anything, anything at all… But… There's no one left… I...”

John looked across the table, his words faltering.

There was a long pause.

“You can stay with me a few days,” Christian finally sighed. He'd said nothing the entire time John had rambled helplessly about what his life had become. Instead he'd watched John with his pale, pretty eyes; eyes that John had forgotten he'd missed.

“That's not what I -” John stammered, confused. He hadn't asked for that, had he? He'd already found a place to stay, though Basel seemed extraordinarily expensive.

“John, what the fuck.” The sentence hinted at Christian’s true state of mind, his voice a mix of concern, irritation, distress. Not to mention, Christian never cursed. John looked back sheepishly.

“I'm sorry,” he said. It must have been for the hundredth time, but it was all he could think of past a certain point.

“You should be,” Christian said angrily. For the first time he looked away, out the window of the cafe.

The city lights were just beginning to glow. The cafe they sat in smacked of wealth and modern culture, in a distinctly European way. Switzerland was a strange place, full of a manicured order that suited Christian well.

John could not help but admire how his ex looked in that moment, distraught and attractive, dressed finely, not a hair out of place in an equally beautiful setting. Somehow the perfection of it all jerked John back to London for a moment, and to the nightmare that he'd fled.

He looked into his tea miserably. Had Sherlock really taken him in the street? The memory of that night was muddled with the dreams and delirium brought on by a real, full heat. He'd lost days to it. After waking he'd showered, then without packing anything, simply left. Only knowing he didn't want to be alone.

“Just come to the house,” Christian was saying, “we’ll work it out…we’ll figure something... it will be okay…” his hand slid across the table and gripped John's own.

_It will be okay_

The sentiment was exactly what John needed to hear, though he hadn't known how much until then.

He choked bag a panicked sob of relief, then laughed as Christian’s eyes went wide with surprise.

“Christ,” muttered John, “I'm a proper wreck…”

“I've never seen your behaviour so omega-ish,” Christian agreed in wonder, “you mustn't be joking about the hormone fluctuations.”

John laughed weakly.

“I _have_ been someone's lab rat for the last six months,” he said, regaining his composure somewhat.

Christian shook his head.

“Only you would have the nerve to show up in this condition, only you could get away with this shit.” He said. His word were still tinged with anger, but his eyes were softer now. He gave John a small smile.

Perhaps it would be okay after all.

“I'm a complete and utter bastard, I know that,” John muttered. He looked around for their server.

“Christ, I need a drink.”

Christian’s expression darkened.

“Don't you think you should refrain?” He asked sternly. John looked back in wary surprise.

“I was mostly addicted to stimulants at the hospital, the alcohol’s really not a problem-”

“No, not for-,” Christian frowned, “I meant - for the baby.”

John stopped, as if he'd been punched, all the air suddenly leaving his lungs.

“What?”

Christian pulled his hand away, a look of suspicion and hurt disbelief on his face.

“Why did you come here, John?” He growled, “what are you asking me for?”

“You think I'm-” John stared at Christian, then put his face in his hands in disbelief.

“Oh my god, oh fuck,” he moaned. It made sense. The symptoms had been there for weeks, the vomiting, exhaustion, dizziness - they were too tangled up with the symptoms of Sherlock’s experiments, of his own drug use-

“You really didn't know?” Christian asked. There was a long pause, and then he sat back a look of wonder on his face.

“I told you I'm a mess,“ John said pitifully.

“You weren't exaggerating,” Christian marvelled, “your scent alone is broadcasting it loud and clear.”

“I've been fucked up in all sorts of other ways- it's been confusing-”

“So I guess you haven't seen a doctor, then.”

“Fuck.” John slumped back, defeated. It was more than he could deal with. But now Christian was smiling at him with an odd look.

Protective, perhaps.

  _Mine_

 Possessive…

 _Mine_  

Familiar.

“I'll take care of you,” said Christian, “don't worry.”


	21. Ultrasound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can almost feel Sherlock as a presence in the house, waiting for him, watching him, demanding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it really been another week? :(  
> 2017 is going by too quickly...

The technician expertly spread the cool gel across the swell of his abdomen. Now that he knew, it was impossible to ignore; it seemed that all his body was doing was swelling. Preliminary tests had been fine, everything was shockingly normal, despite his fears. Christian squeezed John's hand in anticipation.

“Here we go,” the technician said. She moved the wand slowly over John's belly. Moments later, the unmistakeable sound of a heartbeat filled the room. 

“It's so fast-” Christian said.

“Tenacious little bugger,” John grumbled.

“John!”

John crossed his arms defensively at Christian’s horrified tone. Although life had been stable and low key, John was still caught in an emotional blender.

“Well this isn't exactly the ideal scenario to be born into, is it?” He said, “I've been abusing my body for months, the kid’s got to be a stubborn one-”

“Two,” the technician interrupted, “you're having twins.” She moved the wand, and pointed at the monitor though it was hardly necessary. A second heartbeat had come through the speakers. 

John stared in disbelief at the image on screen.

An image of Sherlock looking pleased flashed through his mind's eye.

“Well that's just- just-”

“John, calm down,” Christian soothed.

“Three,” The technician said.

“What!?” 

“Oh four actually- oh-”  She stopped, looked between the two of them, looking slightly embarrassed.

“I’ll have to start over, to count properly,” she confessed.

“Are you telling me there's more than four in there?” John cried in dismay.

“I want you to do better than that omega at St Heliers,” Sherlock explained. He had replaced Christian, was holding John's hand. He stared at John and squeezed a little too hard. John stared back, vaguely aware of the technicians voice.

“Ok so, one… two… three… four… yip…”

“This can't be happening,” John said, “I don't want-”

“It's happening, it's been happening, for months,” said Sherlock, “I've been working on it, it's an experiment.” He punctuated this last statement with a placid grin that sent shivers down John's spine. 

For a moment, John remembered the pinkies he'd found at Baker Street. There had been far too many of them, he suddenly thought. 

“ok then here… five, six, seven, eight-”

“right before your eyes,” Sherlock added, “my little mouse.”

“No!” 

“Nine, ten, eleven, twe-”

John opened his eyes in horror and moaned, the  emotions of his nightmare still present against the light of day.

 

“John? You okay?” Christian’s voice drifted in from the next room.

 

John sat up clumsily, pulling the blanket up and around himself. Past the sixth month mark it had become difficult to manoeuvre.

“I'm fine,” he sighed.

“More bad dreams?” 

“Yeah, guess so.”

It felt impossible for John to explain his feeling that the encounter with Sherlock was more than a dream, the feeling that Sherlock was still in the room. That even away from Sherlock and the regimen of substances he'd been abusing, John’s dreams regularly leaked into his waking life. Sherlock had managed to fracture reality, and John was still struggling to put it back together. Christian came in and sat next to John on the sofa. He reached under the blanket to find John's swollen belly. Almost immediately, they had become lovers again.

“Maybe you should go back to the doctor, see what your options are, she could probably prescribe something mild-” he soothed. A shiver of pleasure at Christian's touch ran through John. He closed his eyes. With his eyes shut, he could smell Sherlock's scent. John opened them and shook his head, banishing it.

“No! I don't want that,” he said. 

He looked at Christian anxiously.

“I'm - I wanna stay completely clean…” he added. Christian nodded.

“Yeah, ok I get it,” he said, “But I'm also concerned that you're suffering.” Christian began to alternately nibble and kiss John's neck as he spoke, his hands roaming freely.

“The only thing I'm suffering from is being a bloody beached whale,” John grumbled. He looked at the expanse of his own belly and silently cursed Sherlock for the umpteenth time; for doing what he'd told John he intended; for doing it well, for making John carry and swell with his babies.

“That will pass soon enough,” Christian soothed, 

“Besides, you're tremendously sexy this way,”

John shuddered as Christian’s hand found its way under his shirt and stroked the bare, distended flesh. Christian had become far more amourous in the last few months, even if the twins John was carrying weren't his own. 

“I don't feel like it.” 

“That's a lie, it's only because you've just woken up from a nightmare. You're normally insatiable, my moody, unbonded little slu-”

His words were muffled by John's sudden kiss.

“Ah ha,” Christian whispered a moment later. The two of them had shifted by then, were quickly moving together. 

“You may be in denial, but your pheromones don't lie,” he added.

“Fine then,” John grunted in approval as Christian climbed on top of him. Being pregnant but not bonded  _ had _ left his libido raging. Moreover, his scent had begun to broadcast a scandalous availability that had made him overly magnetic to alphas. Christian was no exception, he spent most of his time at home now, “looking after” John.

“Can't get enough of you,” Christian breathed. He slid off the couch, gently pulled John with him. John’s felt his belly brush against the floor as he steadied himself on his hands and knees and let Christian take him. He was already wet, was in fact, wet and ready most of the time now. It was Sherlock's fault, he thought, for getting him into this state, for knocking him up against the odds. He closed his eyes instinctively, the forbidden scent making its way back into his brain.

“Mine,” rumbled Sherlock in approval. He slicked his long fingers in and out of John, before sliding his thick cock in between John's thighs. John whimpered as Sherlock entered him with a growl and he felt himself spread wide. Sherlock's cock and knot were bigger than ever, had swollen in accordance to John's stomach. Sherlock moved, his body pressed against John’s, his breath hot on John's cheek. His scent permeated and seemed to come from everything: the room, his body, John's body, their offspring. He ran his hands along the underside of John's swollen womb possessively. An electric current shot through John; he felt himself crumble at the touch.

“Yours,” John's words were barely more than an exhale, but enough to drive the alpha on top of him into a frenzy.

 

+++

 

“I can't wait until we have our own,” Christian said. They lay curled together on the floor, the blanket spread under them, his hand still resting against the swell of John's belly. Even post coitus, his focus seemed fixed. 

“What?” John breathed.

“You told me you wanted children,” said Christian.

“Yeah, well we're having some,” John said grumpily. The buzz of sex was already wearing off, and he was feeling upset at how easily Sherlock manifested, how much John simultaneously wanted and was repelled by his presence. Christian circled his finger tip around where John's navel used to be.

“We are, but you know It isn't the same,”he said thoughtfully, “We've talked about this - I want-”

“I know what you want. You bloody alphas are all alike,” John said. He wished to point out how unlike himself Christian was behaving in that moment, but Christian didn't seem to be listening. 

“I want to see ourselves combined, I want to create a living, breathing celebration of our love for each other, one that will outlast our mortality.” 

“Mortality?” 

“Nothing to fear, anymore,” said Sherlock. 

John shook the illusion away, bringing Christian back.

“I'm not sure we can handle three kids,” he said lightly.

Sherlock’s fingers slipped between John's own.

“More than that, many more, as I've been telling you,” he said.

“Six,” Christian corrected,”I'd like six.”

“That's- a lot of celebrating,” John said.

Christian smiled oddly. “Back in London, we always talked about six,” he said.

“I don't believe we did,” said John, “I'd remember if I agreed to having half a dozen kids…”

“That will make eight total, but that's ok, it means more love for our family.”

“Love is the key to overturning mortality,” said Sherlock. John stared at him. 

“I can't tell if this is real,” he confessed.

“Let me fuck you again, you'll feel better.” Said the alpha.

 

+++

 

_ Mine! _

 

“Where do you think he is now?” John says staring up at the ceiling. He can almost feel Sherlock as a presence in the house, waiting for him, watching him, demanding him. He winces in discomfort. His belly has been anything but still, the contractions are getting stronger again, closer together. He can tell there's not much time left. 

 

_ Mine! _

 

“I don’t know,” Mary answers solemnly, “The estate is enormous, and he disappears regularly. There are other buildings-”

She gasps as John impulsively grabs her wrists, stares at her angrily.

“Is that where he takes them?” He demands, “Which place?” He feels himself beginning to spin out of control, adrenaline and rage bubbling up again at this woman who has helped steal his children from him. The idea that they might be nearby pushes him over the edge, and for a moment he sees her face above him, remembers her - cold and unsympathetic, as she slides a needle into him, sedating him, ignoring his cries.

_ Please let me hold it... just for a minute...please, please... please! _

“I don't know - I - ow! Please let go!”

“Am I hurting you?” He seethes. How many times has she made him suffer?

“Yes, oh! please! I- I- I don't know what he does with them, I'm not privy to that- they- they're his children too, I didn't- ow! I don't think he'd-”

She gasps again, the sound ending in a little sob of pain as he twists her round, pinning her down.

He has no idea where his strength is coming from, but he thinks again, that he might kill her, that she would deserve it if he simply-

Once again, the sound of one of the babies, then the other crying disrupts John’s rage, and he looks up with a strangled sob of his own. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-” she’s saying; he’s shoved her onto on the floor, she’s crawling away from him, but he's not listening. He's cradling his children instead, indulging in what's been denied to him for years.

 

Mary leans miserably against the wall, arms wrapped around herself. 

“You're healing quickly,” she says softly. She's rubbing her arms, not looking directly at him.

“I'll - be back later to check on you,” she adds after a moment. He doesn't bother to look up as she backs out the door.


	22. Soft and Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You mustn't be frightened, I'm going to protect you, keep you, you're mine..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! I got kinda busy again...

“Does this hurt?” Christian winced in lieu of response as John gently cleaned around his ribs. A dark bruise had already begun to form against his pale skin.

“I don’t think you need to go to hospital, nothing seems broken… apart from your glasses,” John said. Christian looked at him sombrely.

His lip was split, there was the promise of a bruise to come over his left cheekbone. His knuckles were scraped; John had iced and wrapped them.

Less than an hour ago, John had watched in disbelief as Christian tackled another man to the ground. Admittedly the man had pursued John aggressively. He'd made blatant propositions, followed John round - but still - John had never seen that side of his boyfriend before; Christian had always been the model opposite of a macho alpha. Until today; when he’d unabashedly pummeled another in public (and received a pummeling of his own). Now in the privacy of their home, Christian had gone very quiet. Roughed up and without his glasses, he looked like a different person.

“Are you...alright?” John asked.

“How could you?!” Christian growled.

“How could I what?”

“Put yourself in danger like that, John!”

John looked at Christian in genuine surprise.

“But… I didn’t do anything!” He said.

“You left the house… I’ve told you many times: you are to stay inside now! ” Christian said. He stood abruptly, began to pace in agitation.

“I - I needed some air,” John said.

Christian's behaviour had become far more erratic the past weeks; territorial, aggressive, and John found himself trying to keep the situation calm more often than not.

“You needed attention,” Christian snarled, “which I've been doing my best to give you, though it evidently isn't enough.”

“What… What's that supposed to mean?” John asked.

“Try to see yourself for once,” Christian said, “you're not fit to go roaming, you're practically too big to walk! …and yet you do roam. You roam and you flirt. Why? What kind of omega does this?!”

“Well I guess I do, mate,” John said flatly. He couldn't quite bring himself to face the point Christian was really raising. It was true, he was getting close to giving birth; his belly was very large. It was also true that his brain was swimming in hormones, and he found himself, more often than not, acting strangely around alphas of all kinds. He hadn't minded the aggressive alpha’s attention one bit (had quite enjoyed it if he was honest), but it wasn't the reason he'd ventured out today.

“I needed to think,” he said.

“It's because you aren't bonded,” said Christian, a growing fury in his voice. He gestured wildly at John's stomach. “Not bonded… and...and in this condition!”

“You're - jealous,” John said.

“Of course I am!” Christian shouted, “here I am taking care of you, and I don't even know that you're mine!”

John closed his eyes. Sherlock's scent made its way into his nostrils.

“I - of course I'm yours,” he said quietly.

“Are you?” Asked Sherlock's deep voice.

“Yes,”

“And should he appear?” John opened his eyes at Christian’s question. Christian was holding a copy of The Guardian up. The reason John had gone out that morning, in a mild panic, to think, to be alone, stared him in the face.

_Elementary! Hero Detective Recovers Missing Children!_

Sherlock graced the cover of the edition. He was surrounded by a sea of emotional faces, mostly overjoyed at his apparent success. Five small children were amoungst the adults, held up by people whose body language suggested they were family. The children looked healthy but more than anything, confused. Sherlock stared directly into the camera, as though he were looking at John.

_Above: The Famous Consulting Detective with the St Helier’s Children._

_Once again, a mystery that proved too difficult for the police has been solved by the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes. Five missing children were located early this morning._

_The St Helier Children are quintuplets who are believed to have been abducted from the time of their birth. The case began when earlier this year, the remains of seven other children and an omega adult were found buried on the grounds of the closed branch of the hospital. Morden officials say they are still investigating the institution itself._

_Other details are still being held back, but one thing is certain, England's Most Brilliant Detective has earned himself a holiday-_

“I saw that already,” John said, crumpling the paper away. He did not care to read the rest.

“And?”

“And so what. I told you, he knew where those kids were the whole bloody time,” John shrugged.

“Exactly. He’s finished with whatever he was doing there. He's wrapped it up, and now he'll be coming for you,” Christian said bluntly.

John dropped his head, surrendered to the thought he'd been wrestling with all day.

“I know,” he finally said. Christian’s hand landed on him with firm pressure.

“Let's be ready for this together,”

His voice was a deep reassurance, a perfect alpha baritone.

“I love you, John.”

His fingertips brushed alongside John's cheek and coaxed John's head up to meet his eyes. Christian held John with his gaze, an unspoken question in his pale stare.

“I know, I … love you too-”

“You often say that, but is it true?” Christian asked. His tone had shifted back to agitated.

“Yes! Of course! I- I'm just- I think I-”

John’s words were cut short as Christian took him into a crushing embrace, brought their mouths together. His lips tasted faintly of blood.

“Think I'll let him take you?” Christian whispered hotly, “think I'll let anyone even come close?” His voice was tinged with a familiar irrational tone.

“You’re mine now,” he snarled. He tightened his embrace: strong, unyielding.

“Mine,”

John felt himself quickly fall prey to sensation. He relished physical contact now, craved it. He felt Christian’s mouth moving over him, kissing his face and the the underside of his jaw. Attention from an alpha was a powerful, quick fix to the anxiety he continually suffered; he’d come to rely on it. He sighed with a strange kind of relief as Christian pushed him up against the wall, trapping him completely.

“Give yourself to me, John,” Christian demanded, “fully,”

“John,” Sherlock's low voice disrupted the flow of passion John was swimming in.

“What?”

“Wake up, you're dreaming,” Sherlock was wrapped in his sheet now, lying on the sofa. It seemed like the old days for a moment, and John felt a deep pang of sadness.

“I can't-”

“You can,” Christian whispered, “you mustn't be frightened, I'm going to protect you, keep you, you're mine,”

John moaned softly as Christian made him feel good. He dropped his head back with a sigh, confused at whose voice he heard, but knowing full well what came next.

“Mine, mine, you're mine, mine…”

 

When the bite came, he had a vague notion of crying out, through his near spiritual bliss, wordlessly to his alpha.

 

+++

 

They're strange. It's an awful sentiment to have about one's own offspring. It's not as though he isn't enamoured with them, but it's an inescapable fact nagging at John as he looks at the two newborns. _Strange_ , he thinks.

They're big, for one thing. He almost can't believe he bore them. They look weeks old, are simply too large to be new babies. He half wonders if they have been somehow growing rapidly since they came out, are noticeably bigger now in the first few hours of their life. It's a crazy idea, yet giving birth to them was too easy given the size of their heads. Surely his body couldn't have stretched so widely, he thinks.

They're quiet, too. They are quieter than any babies he's ever seen. He doesn't remember them crying at first breath, yet it must have happened. Of course, he was - is a mess - he knows it's difficult to trust his memories at all.

However, it’s really their eyes that put things over the top. They are pale, piercing. Sherlock's eyes. The babies seem to focus, follow John's  movements, though he thinks it's not possible, they're too young to see already, to be this aware-

With a shudder, John remembers the stare Sherlock adopted when sliding into his alpha side. Is that what he's seeing? The beginning of feral children? He hopes they are more like the genius version of their father.

Another part of him is utterly calm as he looks at them. That they exist is enough for him.

 _They are strong_ _they’ll be fine_ _the world is theirs_ _nothing to worry about they're being cared for_

He floats through the feelings, content.

_Mostly content except he would enjoy having his bondmate here, perhaps to hold him, or even-_

The sound of the door opening makes him (and his strange children) look up. John shakes the dreamy train of thought off.

The surrogate - the mousey one - is standing in the doorway.

“What do you want?” John snarls irritably. His conversation with Mary has put him firmly in defensive mode, he's beginning to feel rage against these people who've been instrumental to keeping him here, repeatedly raped, bound, bred, stolen from, captive.

“I came to tell you where you might find him,” she says. Her voice is soft but confident, perhaps the hair is misleading.

“So you _do_ talk,” says John.

“Of course! Just not to her,” Mousey says dismissively.

“I'm worried about him,” she adds, “please, you must find him,”

John looks at her suspiciously.

“Where?”

She comes closer, smiles at the infants he's holding.

“Shall I feed them while I tell you?”

 

+++

 

He's happy in this dream; for once, he's swimming in more than physical sensation.

He's back in England, somewhere, he thinks. It's Baker Street at times, and another blurred familiar place. Maybe his first childhood house. There's a grand old library, at once private, lavish and comfortable. Should he look through the drawing room door there's a field of flowers. In place of the hallway cupboard is a door that opens to the seaside. In any case, it's a place he feels peaceful in, contented, safe. An unnamed yearning he faces in his waking life is gone; its absence a welcome and noticeable presence, like health after a long illness.

John wanders, taking in the world about him, calm and happy. His children are there, they run about, playing, squabbling good naturedly. There is no anxiety around them for once, only a love that flows between him and them and to his bondmate.

His bondmate. John can't quite focus on him, he's simply a large, constant presence. Then again, the whole dream is more feeling than narrative.

His bondmate is a source of strength and happiness. It's from him so much of John's bliss flows; for together they've cocooned away from life’s loneliness, fostered love, built this mysterious world.

John closes his eyes and feels himself enveloped by this prescience. There are strong arms around him, there's a soft kiss against his jaw.

“Home,” his bondmate says, the voice is low and soothing as it simply expresses the state they are in together.

“Home,” John repeats, _Home_ , that's what it is, that’s the thing he's been yearning for.


End file.
